


predilections

by Patchouli (lifelesslyndsey)



Series: Predilections [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Actual Slash, BAMF Stiles, Danny Doesn't Know, Denial, Druid Stiles Stilinski, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, M/M, No Longer Pre-Slash, Pining, Sheriff is Stiles Dad, Slash Pending, Sorry Not Sorry, boner-talk, but maybe not his father?, gay acceptance, highschool bullshit, some brief angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-18 01:17:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 51,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4686944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifelesslyndsey/pseuds/Patchouli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Danny gets a boner, it's all Stiles fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Real Talk (Boner Talk)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going through and editing all the chapters, just routine clean up for grammar and anything that got lot in the doc transfer from Google Docs to Archive (basically anything that was originally in italics, why you dis?)

**Preface**

 

You would think, given his predilections for non-conformity, that Danny would be above considering The N _orm_ as a means of social construct. As a means of judgment; of oneself, and others.

 

You would think, but you’d be wrong.

 

He's a goddamn teenager. Sue him. Danny hits the gym like it owes him money, shops at Hollister and Abercrombie. He pours a countless amount of his parents dollars into bleaching his teeth, fighting the ever-present battle against acne, and yes, getting his eyebrows waxed. He listens to crappy top 40 pop music because that’s what the cool kids expect. He doesn’t eat lunch in the cafeteria, even when he’s fucking starving and wouldn’t mind stomaching down a precooked burger.  He sits at the _primo_ table instead, and drinks diet coke while Jackson and Lydia and their recyclable friends trade gossip about the good kids of Beacon Hills High.

 

He cares too much about what others think. He’s just a kid;  he’s just as susceptible to peer pressure as the next fucked up sixteen year old.  He just happens to be gay too. If anything, he has a few extra problems to consider.

 

But the fact here is...being gay didn’t enlighten him to Giving No Fucks.

 

Which is why when Stiles Stilinski asks Danny if he finds him attractive...Danny says nothing. He's sixteen. Sue him. 

 

***

_And So, Our Tale Begins_

_***_

It starts in the sixth grade. It all starts in the sixth grade, really.  Deep down, Danny probably knew before that but...sixth grade really nails it home. 

 

Danny doesn't like girls. That revelation doesn't come so seamlessly as it does on television, or in the movies. No....It hits him at the oddest times, over a long period. He doesn't like girls. 

 

Not like _that_ anyway. Not in a way that made his peers stupid.  He has no desire to impress them, has no desire to pull their pigtails or chase them on the playground.  They don't make him tongue tied, or fill him with butterflies. He's twelve years old, so it doesn't concern him overly much. Why should it?

 

 But then....

Age twelve turns into age thirteen, and his body starts _doing_ things. Weird things with hair, and fluids and stuff he just doesn't want to talk about but his mother _insists_. At least, Danny figures, it wasn't like the Where Do Babies Come From talk, in which a power point presentation was created.  He's pretty sure she has it saved on a thumbdrive somewhere, for his little brother and sister. 

 

She spoke of girls, very briefly, and how it was okay to have _those_ thoughts (whatever those thoughts were). She spoke of how he might want to touch them, how he might want to kiss them, and how those wants were natural.  She promises him it was natural to want those things, perfectly fine, but he should always do his best to respect both himself, and them. It felt so impossibly ambiguous. Them. Girls. It could have been _aliens_. 

 

So he waits, waits for that sick fluttery feeling of want to hit him too. He kisses a girl at bible-camp. The press of her glossy lips against his own did make his stomach clench, but it doesn't feel good.  It made him feel sick.

 

He doesn't do it again.

 

Sixth grade became seventh. Seventh became eighth The want never comes, not even with the strange body-hair, and croaking voice of year fourteen. His mother whispers words about late bloomers, but there was no _blooming_ , there was no buds of interest. Nothing. Not even confusing dreams, or embarrassing situations in the pants region. There was no want.

 

Junior High loomed. The want never comes.

 

When his brother came home, whispering all sorts of things about getting up his girlfriends shirt...Danny thought maybe the interest was there. So he looks. Admittedly, girls his age don't have much but...but surely there should have been a spark. Something.

 

But...there wasn’t.  He looked at girls, at their glossy mouths, shiny curls, cute shoes and thought to himself for the very first time ; something isn’t right.

 

It was a dirty feeling, slimy and unwanted, curling up in the pit of his stomach and sizzling angrily until it was all he could think about, how something wasn’t right, how he wasn’t right. He was fourteen as he watched his peers hold hands, and press sticky kisses in the hallway. Some of the bolder kids did more, confused, too-soon fumbles under shirts and skirts. No one really knew what they were doing, but they wanted it anyway.

 

But not Danny.

 

So, with shaking hands, and a lump in his throat...he told his mother that she was wrong. It wasn’t until a week later, as Uncle Joe took him aside, and she slipped out the kitchen door with an encouraging smile, that Danny understood.

 

“I’m gay,” Uncle Joe had said, like it was a secret. It wasn’t. They don't talk about it, but not because it was something bad. They don't talk about it because....well, Danny isn't sure. Because it isn't something that needs to be talked about? Like the weather, or car insurance premiums. What is there to talk about?

 

“...I know.” Uncle Joe has been with Uncle Jesse for a solid five years.  Danny doesn’t really remember - he was probably only nine or so.  One day Uncle Jesse wasn’t there, and the next he was.

 

Uncle Joe nods. “I was really lucky you know, to have such an understanding family.  Coming out...that is, when I told the family I was gay...it was very scary for me Danny.  I didn’t tell anyone for years, because I was afraid they wouldn’t love me.”

 

It doesn’t make any sense to Danny. Oh he knows about _that_ kind of hate, knows what some people think of men like Joe and Jesse. But it’s just so dumb, Danny can’t even fathom it. “You’re family,” he says, because it’s answer enough. It should be. “It doesn’t matter who you love.”

 

Uncle Joe swallows hard, and took Danny’s hand. “Danny I was ten when I knew I didn’t like girls.”

 

Danny freezes, hand twitching in his Uncle’s hand. He doesn't say anything, because what was there to say?

 

“Jillian Meyers kissed me at recess and I cried.” Joe snorts. “I cried so hard, my mom had to come get me. I didn’t tell her. I didn’t tell anyone, not for fifteen years. To be honest, I didn’t know myself, for a good five. Basically, the back end of puberty. Those first few  years were rough. I didn’t understand myself, and it was...it was hard. I wish I had someone to talk to me.”

 

“I...” Danny fidgets, pulling his hand back to his chest. “I kissed Mandy Shelton at Bible Camp and it made me want to puke.” It comes out in a rush of words, and maybe some tears but Danny won’t acknowledge them for fear of crying harder. Honesty is hard.  “It just felt bad, Uncle Joey and I...I don’t---”

 

“Hey kid, shhh.” Joe pulls him out of his chair, and crushes him into a hug. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s fine. You can like what you like. No one will ever judge you here for that. We love you.”

 

“I don’t _know_ what I like,” Danny cries because that was the problem. He wishes it was as simple as liking boys or girls. “I don’t like anything the way Mom says I should. I’m fourteen and I’ve never even, I mean I don’t...nothing does it---”

 

“Those aren’t the only ways,” Joe cuts him off, wiping his tears away with a thumb. It makes Danny feel small and stupid but...but protected too. Safe. His shoulders hitch with a shuddered breath, as his uncle ruffles his hair, and hugs him again. “It doesn’t come down to liking boys or girls, Danny. Some people like both. Some people don’t like anything. It’s okay, it’s okay. No matter what, we love you.”

 

There's a therapist after that, a nice lady by the name of Doctor Comfry.  There's a therapist and a neat stack of pamphlets on Asexuality, and just like Joe being gay, they don't talk much about it. It was what it is. Perfectly acceptable.

 

And then Junior High happens.

 

They move from South Oregon, to Beacon Hills. It's a nice change, although people assume he's Native American now, instead of an Eskimo (which, his dad explains, is another form of Native American, so why does it even matter?).  His mother tells him, with a dimpled smile, that they were still too far North in California, for people to consider Pacific Islander.

 

“Hawaiian!” His dad argues, shaking his head. “Just say Hawaiian.”

 

His mother sniffs, and begins unpacking another box. “I don’t want to be associated with Fruit Punch, thank you very much.”

 

" _Polynesian_ , then. Pacific Islander. Ugh." 

 

His family. Seriously.

 

He starts school exactly one semester into the year at Beacon Hills Junior High.  It's a good school enough school, bigger than his last, but Danny has always been a fast learner. He’s  waffling around outside the office, waiting for the aid to bring him his schedule when something barrels into him, knocking him to the ground.

 Or rather, some _one_.

 

“Ooph!” The boy says, sprawled out on top of him. “Oh hey. I don’t know you.”

 

He has freckles, a whole bunch of them like cinnamon sprinkles, right over his nose, and his eyes were a bright, warm brown; it's the first thing Danny notices right before his stomach drops and his palms get sweaty.   “ Danny. I’m... That’s me. My name. Danny Mehalini.”

 

Their whole bodies are pressed together, legs tangled, hips flushed. It's the most intense hug _ever_.He's bigger than Danny, but not by much, and his flannel shirt smells like Axe, maple syrup and sweat.  The contact lasts only a moment, but...Danny is frozen by the feel of it.

 

“That’s what you think,” the kid tells him, wriggling up off Danny's everything. “But I bet you a buck, you’re New Kid for at least a month.”

 

He scrambles up, confused by his own body. His tongue feels heavy, and dry.   _What the hell was wrong with him_? Why couldn’t he form words?  His face heats up with some unknown embarrassment. Danny doesn’t know why he feels so hot, only that...he’s not sure he doesn’t like it.

 

The kid doesn't seem to require a response. He grins. “I’m Stiles! Welcome to Beacon Hills, dude.” He holds out his hand, only to have it slapped away.

 

“Back off loser,” another kid cuts in, shoving Stiles aside. “Quit freaking the new kid out.”

 

“He wasn’t---” Danny begins, but his words are cut short as a heavy arm settles over his shoulders. Danny fights the urge to shrink away.

 

“Don’t you have some meds to take, or something?” The kid sneers at Stiles, arching a pale brow at him. “Here’s some advice for you New Kid; don’t waste your time on Freak Show here.”

 

The squirmy hot-cold feeling in Danny’s chest shifts to something distinctly less nice, as Stiles's open smile falls. “I don’t think---”

 

“Whatever Jackson,” Stiles mutters, flashing a look Danny’s way. “It was nice knowing you, New Kid.”

 

Knowing. Not meeting.

  
  
That won’t make sense until the next day.

 

_***His Royal Junior Highness***_

 

That night, he doesn’t sleep well.  He rolls onto his belly, but doesn't find a comfortable position.  He feels weird, hot-wired and just plain _hot_. He moves listlessly against the mattress, body and mind seperate . His dreams are different, new. He can almost feel the press of a body down upon him, skinny hips against his own...it’s _different_. It’s strange. His heart pounds, as his palms sweat. He dreams of freckles, red mouths, and warm eyes. He dreams of flannel, and hands against his chest.

 

When he wakes, it’s with a gasp, messy sheets and possibly the most _amazing_   feeling imaginable. He floats on that feeling, until he trips in the tangle of his boxer shorts, where they're caught at his ankles, and face plants on the floor. 

 

His mother doesn’t ask him why he’s washing his bedding at seven in the morning, red faced and silent. But the happy look on her face says it all. She looks _proud_ , or relieved. Whatever it is, it makes him terribly uncomfortable. She looks like she wants to talk about it. His first --- Just. No.

 

“I’ll call Uncle Joe later if you don’t make me talk about it,” He pleads, as he dumps fabric softener into the cup thing.

 

Her face falls, just a little, and seriously what is his family? “Alright,” she concedes. “But...but you can talk to me, if you want. About anything. Anyone.”

 

He knows what she’s asking, what she wants to know. “His name is Stiles,” he says with a pained little sigh. “I just...I don’t know. Oh my god, Mom stop looking at me like that please.”

 

“But...But...” She pouts at him, and he relents by hugging her. “I just love you, Daniel. I hate to see my babies suffer.”

 

He closes his eyes and forces himself not to shut his head in the washing machine. “I am suffering now. Humiliation. Shame. Horror. I’m fourteen, mom. I can’t... Uncle Joe. I will call him. It will suck, but it will suck less than talking about this with you. You’re my mom. I just. Can't.”

 

She grins, and sets the washing machine to medium. “You’re right. You’re growing up. You’re not my baby anymore.”

 

“Mom.”

 

***

Basically, Danny’s first boner is because of Stiles.

 

It won’t be the last.

 

***

 

He looks for him the next day, but Jackson cuts him off. He drags Danny to what can only be described as the Popular Table, of which Danny had never been invited before. It's like a throne, poised above all the other peons of Beacon Hills Junior High, and sparsely filled with those worthy. Danny, apparently, is included in this elite group.   Jackson is clearly a jock, with money and junior high social power.  Danny...Well. Danny likes the attention, okay? He’s fourteen, he wants to be popular.  

 

Jackson's scoping out the meager female offerings the cafeteria provides, casually pointing out girls he could introduce Danny too.

 

He doesn’t know why he says _it_. It just comes out.  It's a big deceleration, considering he's only just considered the possibility _yesterday_. “I’m gay.” The words sit there between them, frozen in a sea of insecurities. Jackson isn’t his family, Danny thinks with sudden horror.

 

Jackson stares at him for a long moment and Danny’s sure he’s going to be shoved away, and possibly hit. But Jackson just narrows his eyes. “I’m not,” he says firmly, jaw clenched .”That gonna be a problem?”

 

Danny’s not really sure what's happening. Shouldn’t he be asking that? This isn’t what he expected, the first time he said those two words out loud. “No, no of course not. I just figured you should know. I don’t. I mean, I don’t...like girls.”

 

Jackson nods, accepts this without pause and that “Good. More for me.”

 

And just like that, Danny has a new best friend.

 

***

 

He learns very quickly the acceptable social interactions of the Populars at Beacon Hills.  He goes to wave at Stiles, across the cafeteria, when a pale, well manicured hand pulls his hand down. “Oh no honey. Just. No. Don’t encourage him. He might come over here and try to talk to us or something.”

 

Jackson snorts. “Stilinski has an epic boner for Lydia. It’s disgusting.”

 

Lydia makes a face, eyes shifting to Jackson.  It’s not quite a frown. Danny thinks Lydia might be _above_ frowning. “He worships me,” she says, after a long fashion. “Has since the third grade.”

 

Stiles is still staring from across the room, and Danny feels...bad. But then the boy just rolls his eyes, and flashes Danny an honest ‘what can you do?’ smile before he walks away.

 

Danny's stomach clenches again, squirmy and full of butterflies.

 

“Whatever, just don’t talk to him. He’s a freak.” Jackson says, with a disparaging little snort. “I heard his mother killed herself because she couldn’t handle him.”

 

“Jackson,” Lydia snaps, voice sharper than broken glass. “His mother died of cancer, you know that.  If you’re going to gossip, at least bother to base it off truth.”

 

He doesn’t talk to Stiles. It’s obvious that the boy is...odd .But he’s smart too. He’s in all of Danny’s AP classes, and even has an independent study period in the library at the end of the day. Stiles mostly uses it to goof off, or sleep, or harass the librarian. Danny uses it to watch Stiles, from behind a computer monitor under the pretense of studying C++ as a hobby.

  


He fidgets. Can never sit still. Talks, and talks and talks. Sometimes to others. Mostly to himself. Danny can understand why someone like Jackson would call him a freak. Mostly though, he thinks Stiles is lonely.

 

He thinks about sitting down next to him. Talking to him. Asking him about the stack of graphic novels peeking out of his backpack, because Danny...well. He hasn’t read comics since he came to Beacon Hills. He’s cool now and...comics aren’t.  He wants to ask Stiles about his mother. He wants to touch at least _one_ mole (the one that sits on the angle of his jaw). He wants to tie the kids shoes, and maybe undo his pants while he’s down there and Jesus Christ where did that thought come from? Danny wouldn't even know what to do! (But maybe...maybe he has some ideas.)

 

His mind flashes back to the dreams -there’s more of them now.  Sometimes they’re about Stiles belly. Just a few inches of it. Danny had been watching him once, when he’d stretched to reach a book on the top shelf and his shirt had ridden up. It’s flat and pale, and he has freckles there too. Moles, Danny’s mind supplies, and a thin little trail of hair beneath his navel. Danny doesn’t have that yet, though he’s got hair where he didn’t before. It’s not much, but it paints a path to...to other things. Things that make Danny’s palms sweat, and his own jeans tighten.

 

It’s confusing. He knows it’s normal, to think these things, to want these things. His mother has lamented the fact over and over to the point that the embarrassment faded away entirely.  He finds himself wishing he had gym class with Stiles, and then remembers what his Uncle Jesse told him about always keeping his eyes up in the locker room because even accepting straight people didn’t want their junk oogled.

 

That memory, if nothing else, makes him flush a deep, dark red.

 

Of course, that’s when Stiles appears.

 

“You okay?” He asks, looking down at Danny’s red, red face with a bewildered expression. “You don’t look so hot.”

 

“I...” Danny begins, floundering. He never sounds this stupid around Jackson. But then, Jackson doesn’t make him squirm. “Headache,” he bites out, clenching his thighs around his semi.

 

“Headache, or... _headache_?” Stiles eyes narrow, mouth quirking at the sides. His gaze flashes to the computer screen. “Man, you’re face is beet-red and you’re doing the awkward boner chair dance. Although, I mean...html is usually what gets me going. But if fancy programming is what you’re into, I won't’ judge.”

 

“ HTML is for livejournal and myspace,” Danny says in a rush, startled by his own voice. He blinks, watching Stiles’ smile spread. “I like something with a little more....”

 

“Challenge?” Stiles suggests, and then laughs out right. “There are ten types of people in this world...”

 

The segue doesn’t make sense, but Danny finishes it anyway. “Those who know binary, and those who don’t.” He leans forward in his chair, and prop his elbows on the desk so his _headache_ is a little less noticeable. He’s not sure it’s acceptable to discuss boners between two dudes, even under the guise of computer programming. He's not sure he wants Stiles looking at his boner. 

 

“Alright, alright. I’ll leave you to your headache. Thanks for putting up with me.” Stiles rolls his eyes, at himself, and offers Danny a little wave as he backs away.

 

“I wasn’t,” Danny says, before he can get to far. “Putting up with you. I wasn’t.” Jackson’s voice rings out in his head, about freaks and Stiles. Danny can’t help but feel a little ashamed on Jackson's behalf.

 

Stiles turns mid-step, but doesn’t keep walking. He’s still smiling, eyes still bright. He smiles a little, just a peek of teeth behind pink lips and Danny feels a little faint. “It’s okay Danny-boy, I won’t tell.”

 

If his life were some sort of rom-com high school movie, the next day Danny would have boldly sat next to Stiles during lunch.  The cafeteria would have fell silent. Danny might have even kissed Stiles to prove a point.

 

But, his life is _not_ a movie. It’s not a prime-time series, or even one of those b-rate shows they use to fill late-night Fridays with. It’s not even high-school.  He sits next to Jackson, drinks his diet coke, and listens to Lydia gossip, all while wondering why it even fucking matters. Junior High shouldn’t be so hard.

  
  
  


 

 


	2. Study Buddy (you ditched me for a convict)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is a freak, and Danny is a freak for ever liking him like that, so it’s best if he just doesn’t. So he doesn’t.
> 
> And then Stiles goes and ruins it by inviting him over to his house to study.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I skewed some chronological events to suit the story. Like just when Danny meets Miguel. 
> 
> Things like that. Danny doesn't know about werewolves or anything, but they do exist.

 

Danny is sort of ashamed at how easily Jackson conditioned him to think such awful thoughts. But he did, in a way. For an entire year everytime Jackson saw Stiles, he said the same thing. “That kid is a _freak_.”

 

Over time, it became truth. A gospel, of sorts; the Popular Gospel.  

 

Like so many other things, Danny began to believe it too, until the awkward nighttime fumbling, and sticky morning memories were washed away with the boldface font words THOU SHALT NOT CRUSH ON THE FREAK were embedded deep into his mind and any other feelings on the matter were soaked in shame and secrecy. To think of Stiles as anything other than a freak became tantamount to sin.

 

So Danny forgets. He forgets about the press of Stiles body against his own. He forgets about his laugh, and his cinnamon freckles, and how soft his hands were, and how red his mouth was only four or so inches from Danny’s, where they’d laid on the hallway floor in a tangle of limbs. He forgets the pale expanse of his teenage belly, or that little line of hair Danny had only seen once, one he doesn’t even yet have himself.

 

Stiles was a _freak_. It was fact.

 

Lydia backs it up, as do the other popular kids of Beacon Hills, every time they laugh at Stiles, every time they make a joke. Stiles handles it with a strange aplomb, laughing with them on occasion, or going so far as to bow and mutter, “Thank you thank you, I’ll be here all year.”

 

If Danny latches onto every mention of him, every passing word, well...no one knew but Danny himself. If sometimes he looks across the cafeteria, to see Stiles sitting alone with Scott, hands flailing, smile wide...well, no one else is looking. But that doesn’t crush the wave of shame that floods him every time he does it.

 

He flirts. He flirts with guys like Jackson, because they were the only guys Jackson approved of. He meets them at Jackson’s country club, or when Lydia takes him shopping. They’re always older; _too_ old to be realistic.  College guys working mall kiosks or folding shirts at Hollister. Guys who wouldn’t give Danny the time of day if they knew he was only fifteen. They all turn out to be jerks, but Danny doesn’t mind. They don’t really matter to him, beyond the fact that they like _him_. Since that first wet dream, that first awkward boner...it’s like his body has woken up. He finds himself hard over the stupidest things, like a soft breeze, or a sharp jaw.  They feel good, they make him feel good, and it’s nice to be fawned over, it’s nice to be appreciated.

It vindicates the deep streak of teenage vanity in him.

 

So it’s nice, if hollow. Sometimes, Danny feels like he’s losing himself to these types of guys. That every time he laughs at their stupid jokes, a little piece of him curls up and _dies_. Every time he dumbs himself down so they understand him, a part of him breaks up and withers. Like he’s somehow becoming them. Cruel, and cold, and vapid. He wonders if this is how Lydia feels, but he doesn’t dare ask.  

 

Instead, he forgets his crush on Stiles in the summer between freshman and sophomore year. Jackson’s family invites him on their yearly vacation. Danny has two words for you; cabana boys. He comes back fresh faced, not a _complete_ virgin, and maybe just a little smug for it. It’s easy to forget Stiles, with Jackson's encouragement, and a sudden influx of older guys interested in his jail bait ass. They're all a little Hollister Hollow, but that's okay. That it’s feeling-less is almost a perk. Nothing hurts, when you don’t give a shit.

 

His interest in Stiles seems childish in comparison. The more Danny thinks on it, the less it makes _sense_. It had been a fluke, a glitch in Danny’s already oddly wired mind. Nothing about Stiles is painfully attractive against the guys who like Danny back. He’s thin...wiry, odd.  Jittery and unfocused. Spazzy. Uncool. Jackson’s voice swims in the back of his mind; he’s a freak. Freak. Freak. Freak.   Slowly, and without Danny’s cognizant realization, that thought had taken hold, and becomes truth. \

Stiles Stilinski is a freak, and Danny can do better. He’s better than Stiles Stilinski.

 

It’s not a nice thought. His mother would be ashamed.

 

But then, he’s not nice to Stiles.  He’s not outright _mean_ either; even bone-soaked in his own mortification for ever having ever entertained such a horrendous crush, Danny can’t bring himself to be very cruel.  It’s just best, where Stiles Stilinski is involved, to keep oneself removed. Because Stiles is a _cyclone_ in a lot of ways, and it would be far too easy to get sucked into that madness. So Danny does his best to discourage any kind of comradery there, without being an outright-dick.  Mostly, he doesn’t talk to Stiles. It’s easy, because talking to Stiles is hard; his tongue gets tied, and his words come out sharp because his brain won’t work the way it should and Danny always, always, always ends up looking stupid, or mean. If at times the cruel doubt creeps in, and Danny wonders if he’s _really_ stupid and mean....well. Jackson squashes that. His air of superiority is shamefully contagious. Danny’s better. They’re better. It’s a status-quo thing. It’s normal, in high school. Stiles probably gets that. He's the sensible sort; pragmatic. He understands the hierarchy. He understands his place. 

 

To be fair, Stiles doesn’t really acknowledge him either. He’s not exactly broken up about his lack of friendship with Danny. (That doesn’t bother Danny. It doesn’t.)Also to be fair, Stiles seems pretty preoccupied in whatever shit storm he’s got brewing with Scott McCall.  

 

Danny’s not interested in that shits how; Jackson’s interested enough for the both of them. Being interested would defy his personal edict to remain removed. So, he doesn’t care about Scott, he doesn’t care about Stiles, and he only cares about Jackson insofar that he should be concerned about not being old enough to post his bail. His embarrassing juvenile crush can just take the back burner for the rest of his life, and he can go on forgetting he ever thought of Stiles like that (naked, flushed, wet, sticky - Jesus Christ, _oh oh oh_ ).  It’s easy. Simple.

 

And then Stiles goes and ruins it by inviting him over to his house to _study_.

 

It’s stupid. Danny _knows_ it’s stupid. And really, he doesn’t want Stiles like that anyway. Stiles is straight. Danny doesn’t do straight boys. Or rather, he has no interest in being anyone's experiment. Also, there is the quiet commandment that reigns supreme in his mind; Stiles is a Freak.  

But he’s never been asked to study, before.  Jackson invites Lydia over to study all the time. The new girl and Scott will no doubt be studying very soon.  No one asks Danny over to study, because no one at Beacon Hills studies like he does.  If there was going to be a cheesy analogy about this, it would be about two pencils, instead of a pencil and a pencil sharpener. Not that vaginas are pencil sharpeners. Probably. Danny wouldn’t know, they freak him out. Anyway, he’s worried about figuring out how to turn Stiles down without being a complete fuck face about it.

  
(And maybe, just _maybe_ , he’s worried that he can’t turn him down at all.)

*

 

As it would turn out, Stiles idea of studying is not Danny’s idea of studying, at all. Not that Danny was interested in that kind of studying with Stiles. That would be...Just. Stiles probably doesn’t even realize what _studying_ means. He’s not exactly a social butterfly, and he’s certainly never adhered to any kind of social queues. That aside, it’s not _actual_ studying either, which is the only _un_ surprising thing about the day. Danny eyes Stiles' innocuous laptop warily, gaze flickering to the half-naked convict in the corner. Because that’s a thing. In Stiles bedroom.

 

The guy is older. And _cut_ like a ten carat diamond. Seriously, Danny has abs, very nice ones actually, and a million dollar smile complete with charming dimples and very even, very white teeth. This guy though? Makes Danny feel thirteen and dumb all over again. He has bunny teeth for fucks sake, but his general demeanor of rugged violence and testosterone still manages to make Danny’s masculinity curl up and die. His jaw is almost as sharp as his teeth and...and _shit_. Danny forgot what it felt like to feel small and weird in his own skin. It’s not a nice feeling.

 

And this guy...who is half naked and pulling on Stiles clothes...is very clearly something to Stiles. Cousin, my ass. No one looks at their fucking cousin like that, Danny’s not a moron.  He’s got no idea why Stiles is showing his hot, older whatever off to Danny, but he knows without a doubt that the guy is no blood relation to the Stilinski’s.

 

“So what do you say, Danny? You up for it?”

 

Danny says yes. In that moment, he’s not entirely sure what he’s agreeing too. And later, he’ll wonder at what laid beyond his scope of vision (the things he’d willed himself to not care about). But for now, he says yes. If only so he can force himself to not look at the convict whose shoulder span was currently stretching out another one of Stiles stupid t-shirts.  Not...not because he wants to show off (like the convict is). Not because he wants to impress Stiles.

 

Stiles isn’t worth impressing. The kid is a freak.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, someone mentioned that Danny's first boner was likely not his First Boner. And I agree, biologically, dudes get 'em pretty much from birth. It just happens. However, contextually speaking I thought it was pretty clear that when I said 'Danny's First Boner' I meant 'Danny's First Sexual Attraction Boner'. So this note is just to clear that up.


	3. Prime Numbers (forever alone, divisible by me and one)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny feels weird. It’s an inexplicable sort of oddness. He feels like a prime number, in-divisible by anything but himself and one, in that moment. He feels, left to stand by his mom's borrowed minivan where it’s parked besides Stiles driveway, very much alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited the last chapter very mildly. It didn't really change anything, but I added some stuff. You don't have to re-read it, but you can. 
> 
> So, I'm just using random events from Teen Wolf in this story, not particularly in chronological order. I know. I know. But it'll be okay. 
> 
> Also, I have very strong views on Stiles parentage. You will see them here. 
> 
> No beta. Sorry.

 

They really do have a lab report though, Danny thinks as he watches Stiles and that guy  dismiss him with little more than an absent-minded wave.  Danny feels weird. It’s an inexplicable sort of oddness. He feels like a prime number, in-divisible by anything but himself, and one, in that moment. He feels, left to stand by his mom's borrowed minivan where it’s parked besides Stiles driveway, very much _alone_. And small in the scope of things.

 

(Is this how Stiles feels? Is this how I make Stiles feel?)

 

And he would blame Stiles for this sudden rush of exclusion, he _would_. Except Danny has never done anything that might encourage Stiles to invite him along for his shenanigans. He’s made it very, very clear in his own aloofness that he wants no part of it. And Stiles has respected that, insofar that Stiles respects anything at all.  Or perhaps it was just that Stiles hasn’t ever had any use for Danny, save for a few teasing questions.

 

So why now? Playing third fiddle on a very strange date....Danny can’t quite squash the irrational sense of _something_ that wells up inside of him, rude and assuming. He doesn’t like how he feels, in that moment, watching the tail-end of a black Camaro turn the corner and disappear.

 

It’s stupid, he consoles himself. That guy might not be Stiles cousin, but he’s not Stiles anything _else_ , either.  For one, Stiles isn’t gay. And if he was, there’s no way in hell he could land a guy like _that_. Please. A guy like that would never be in to Stiles. 

 

Danny feels weirdly, oddly, inexplicably....

 

Small.

 

***

Stiles has the lab report written up and printed in tidy twelve point Times New Roman font the next day.  It’s not due for another week, Danny thinks - they _could_ have gotten together to finish it. Stiles didn’t have to write it up on his own. He looks exhausted though, like he stayed up all night to do it. Danny doesn’t have to read it to know that it’s probably flawless, if not a little rambly. Stiles is nothing if not smart. He offers it to Danny with a sheepish grin, like it’s an apology and not an excuse to not study with Danny anymore. “Sorry I bailed yesterday. I had a ....a thing to do.”

 

Yeah, Danny thinks. A convict.

 

“It’s fine,” Danny’s mouth says, but it rings awkwardly in his ears. “We could meet up tonight to finish the final presentation?”

 

He sees it in Stiles face - it would be hard to fucking to miss. It’s a twitch, and then his mouth tenses, and his hands fly to scratch at the back of his neck. It’s his bull-shitting face. Danny has seen him use it on teachers, and parents, and Scott. “Uh.” Right. Stiles just wants Danny to take the report and fuck off. “I mean...I have a thing tonight. But maybe another time?”

 

 _Stiles_ is blowing Danny off.   
  
Stiles is blowing _Danny_ off.

 

Doesn't matter what way Danny spins it. 

Stiles is blowing Danny off. 

_Small. Small. Small._

***

The next morning, he finds an outline for their joint presentation in his locker, complete with note-cards and a flash drive with a tidy-looking power-point on amino-acid synthesis and proteins. Apparently, Stiles _wasn’t_ to busy to work on the project. He just didn’t want to work on it with _Danny_. Couldn’t even be bothered to give him it in person, like the lab report.

 

Fine. That’s fine. It’s not like Stiles is...is a _homophobe_ or something. 

 

It’s not like Danny thought that if he ever felt like it, he could just...just ask Stiles out and he’d fall right into Danny’s lap, thankful that someone like Danny would deign to be interested in him. Mostly. Mostly he did not think that. Because Stiles is straight, for one.  But he never thought that Stiles would actively _spurn_ Danny’s interest. They’re not friends, but that’s mostly because Danny, right? He’d always thought...if he’d shown interest, even just in friendship....Stiles would be eager to take it.

 

He’s wrong, apparently.

It’s not a nice feeling.

 

_Small. Small. Small._

***

 

“You can’t just do the whole project.”

 

Danny’s cornered Stiles in the locker room. It’s...breaking a lot of social and personal codes, but he’s been thinking about their stupid chem project for the last three days, and it’s driving him _mad_. Stiles is driving him mad! Not because....Not because Stiles doesn't like him.  Danny couldn't care less. But not everything is about Stiles, dammit. Danny’s a good student for a reason! His family isn’t exactly loaded, and he’s hoping for a few scholarships to help with college. Grades are _important_. He won’t have Stiles messing that up, no matter that Stiles has a better GPA than Danny. That’s not the point. Danny’s a team player. He doesn’t need Stiles to hold his hand through the whole damn project.

 

Stiles blinks, towel clutched to his chest like some Southern Belle. He’s wearing fucking pants for Christ sake, it’s not like Danny’s a threat to his virtue. “I--- _What_?”

 

“The project!” Danny will not be distracted by Stiles nipples (they’re kind of hairy). He won’t. “You can’t just fucking do it and expect me to slap my name on it, Stilinski. I’m coming by tonight, we’re going over it together.”

 

“I can’t. I have a...a thing tonight----”

 

“I will be their at four thirty,” Danny railroads right through his argument. He takes his grades very seriously.

***

The first (and only) time Danny had ever been to Stiles's house, he hadn’t bothered to survey the scene, so to speak.  He hadn’t seen the kitchen, slipped past the living room without so much as a second-glance, and was preoccupied in Stiles's bedroom, by shirtless non-cousin.

 

 _Now_ though, Danny is painfully aware. The house is tidy, everything with its own place. He honestly expected, with as half-hazard as Stiles can be, that there would be clutter. The whole house is done in earth tones, but Danny wouldn’t say _decorated_. Very little is hung on the walls, but the floor-to-ceiling  shelves are jam-packed with books, and tiny chachkis; pee-wee trophies, ribbons and pictures of Stiles through the ages. There are even a few of Scott, though that’s hardly surprising.

 

Only one frame holds anything other. It’s a woman, with a bright spill of wavy strawberry blond hair that falls to her elbows. She’s dressed in a butter-yellow sundress and no shoes. The woman is beautiful, with a peppering of freckles high across her cheeks, and slanted green cat eyes. In her arms is a chubby, squirmy-looking boy, chubby baby fists tangled in her hair.

 

Stiles clears his throat, standing at the foot of the stairs. He looks exhausted, and bruised. Not...not _physically_ bruised. Not purple and blue and green, but like his _soul_ is bruised and Danny doesn’t know why he thinks it like that, but he does. Maybe he shouldn't have pushed Stiles to meet up. Maybe Stiles really _had_ something to do. Like sleep. He looks like he needs sleep. 

 

“My mom,” he says, and Danny is honestly surprised. He’d have guessed aunt, or maybe a cousin. The woman is very young, and looks nothing like Stiles at all. “She died when I was nine.” He must recognize the look of surprise on Danny’s face, because Stiles smiles thinly. “Yeah, I look like my father.”

 

Danny thinks of the Sheriff, with his pale eyes, and light hair. “No you don't.”

 

“I said father.” Stiles isn’t smiling anymore. “Don’t worry about.  Everyone takes one look at my dad,and assumes I must have looked like my mother. We moved here after she died.”

 

Danny has a million questions, none of which deserve answers. What happen to the father. What happened to the baby. What happened to Stiles mom?

 

He realizes in that moment that he knows nothing about Stiles. Nothing. And that he’s made a lot of awful assumptions.

 

“She’s very pretty,” Danny says, instead. Because she is. Supermodel pretty. Looking more closely now, Danny can see a little bit of Stiles in her face. The high cheek bones, the wide, dimpled mouth. She looks, Danny thinks, a little bit like Lydia. That’s not something he wants to examine too closely.

 

Stiles...beams, for lack of a better word. “She really was.”

 

The Sheriff comes home about an hour into their project, peeking his gray-peppered head into the room just far enough to see them. There is nothing of Stiles in his face, and now Danny knows why. It seems to personal. Like he shouldn’t know. Why the hell would Stiles tell him? Danny is stricken with the weight of that kind of secret. He wants to give it back, return it, because there is no way he can do it an honor. He’s not that good a person.

 

 


	4. BFF This (better forget feeling this badly)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows that Stiles would tell him. That Stiles would carve like a sad souffle, and that rabbity edge about him would come out full-force and he’d spill it all, if Danny asks. Danny knows that Stiles would tell him. That’s why he doesn’t ask.

He doesn’t talk to Stiles, after demanding he help on their project. Danny thinks that he _could_. He think he could step right in and demand answers too. But he still doesn’t want them.  Stiles isn’t exactly _begging_ for his attention, and to seek him out... Welll. Danny’s a man of pride. So Stiles continues to stumble madly on the outskirts of Danny’s life, always there but never for any particularly discernable reason.  Danny could ask....but he doesn’t.

 

Because he knows. He knows that Stiles would tell him. That Stiles would carve like a sad souffle, and that rabbitesque edge about him would come out full-force and he’d spill it all, if Danny asks. Danny knows that Stiles would tell him. That’s why he _doesn’t_ ask.

 

He reconsiders this choice, time and again. Usually, when Jackson’s involved.He’s not sure, but somehow, this is Jackson's fault. To be perfectly honest, most of Danny’s problems circle back to Jackson. Somehow, Jackson always seems to be involved. With Scott McCall, of all people. With Stiles!

 

“You owe me a fake ID.”  It’s probably pointless. His parents aren’t exactly thrilled with him at the moment. He’s grounded for-till-college and his minivan privileges have been revoked for anything that isn't chauffeuring his little brother and sister about.

 

Jackson blinks at him. “What?”

 

“The club last night?” Danny sighs. Jackson can’t play stupid; Danny _saw_ him there, dancing with Erica Reyes and Isaac Lahey of all people. God. He knew Jackson and Lydia were on the rocks before, but Jackson has never been the type to go slumming it. It’s the sort of thing Lydia would never stand for. Less so now, that Erica got her million-dollar-makeover.  She has legs up to Lydia’s _chin_ , and Danny knows his ginger friend is secretly jealous. “What, you left before it was raided? I was practically _arrested_.”

 

Jackson stares for a long moment. “I---yeah. Yeah I left.”

 

“Stiles was there.” It tumbles out of his mouth before he can swallow it back down. He knows already what Jackson will have to say about that. It’s just...It’s been bothering him. What was Stiles doing there? It's not exactly his scene. 

 

“So fucking what,” Jackson replies, predictably. “The kid's’ a freak.”

 

The words settle over him like a comfortable blanket. There’s familiarity in the cruelty, and it eases Danny’s frayed nerves. It shouldn’t, but it does.

 

***

Things are changing. And not the way they do, when you’re a teenager. _Yes_ they’re getting older, yes their bodies are still doing weird things, but the whole town is drenched in a sick, sticky sort of tension that even Danny can practically taste. He can’t put words to the feeling, but it makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, makes his stomach clench and twist.

 It’s not unlike that feeling you get when you know someone is talking about you. That feeling you get before getting up in front of the class to talk about herpes in Health Ed and everyone laughs every time you stumble over the word _genitals_. The feeling you get when someone you would rather _not_ hit on you, runs their fingers up your arm. It’s a sick kind of adrenaline and apprehension, a cocktail of something that can’t be encompassed. It's all the things you can't see in the shadows, all the things you can't see.  Danny can't see them; but he knows they're there.

Sometimes he feels like a moon, orbiting something so much bigger than himself. Jackson. He’s always orbited Jackson.

 

But the real question is...what is Jackson orbiting?

 

***

 _Sometimes_ he doesn’t feel like a moon at all. Sometimes he feels like he’s circling a drain, ten seconds from going under. He thinks the only thing keeping him afloat are the questions he hasn’t asked. Sometimes he wants too. When he sees the weight on Jackson's shoulders, or the tension in McCall’s shoulders, or Stiles---

 

Danny doesn’t ask.

 

***

With the same skip-stutter-sudden shift, Jackson changes again.  He seems to fit in his skin better now, instead of stalking about like it was stretched too tight.   
  
Danny suspects that it has something to do with Lydia’s complete fucking _meltdown_ , or the change in their lunch table roster, or Jackson's sudden and inexplicable association with the man from Stiles room. The _cousin_. But the cause means very little to Danny. The fact of the matter is this; Jackson is different, and so is Lydia really.  They’re both _different_. Calm. Sure in themselves, individually as people and together as...whatever they are. Jackson is still Jackson, and Lydia is still Lydia, but they’ve somehow mastered in moments how to be _JacksonAndLydia_ in a way that works.  

 

There are other new constants in Danny’s life, inexplicable things that have no rhyme or reason.  Erica Reyes is wearing Lydia’s skirt. It’s about five inches shorter on Erica than it was on Lydia and borders on obscene, but that’s not the point. The point is that Erica and Lydia are sharing clothes, and Danny watched Erica braid the tips of Lydia’s hair in English Lit, with a touch that spoke of fond familiarity. Lydia _allowed_ it. They’re friends. They share some sort of common ground, but Danny doesn’t know what it is. It’s one of _those_ questions.

 

 Jackson gives Isaac Lahey rides to school. It would makes sense of course- their houses are next to each other- except that Jackson never so much as _looked_ sideways at Isaac, not even on the field, until these last few months.  Boyd....Well. Danny’s not sure where he cropped up from. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Boyd, before this year. Danny’s never talked to Boyd before in his life. He probably wouldn’t have been allowed, via Jackson and Lydia. Suddenly, he was just there.

Danny could not honestly tell you if these things happened slowly, and crept up on him, or punched him in the face with their suddenness. He just...can’t explain it.

 

Worst though.... the worst. It isn’t Isaac who, by way of being in the car first, always gets shot-gun in Jackson porch.  It isn’t that Lydia and Erica have girls-night on what use to be Lydia and Danny’s manipedi night (he’s secure enough to like a good manipedi). It isn’t that he’s somehow standing on the wrong side of an inside joke. No. It’s Stiles. But, isn’t it always?

 

In some sort of completely insane turn of events, Lydia and Stiles become friends. It’s...it’s fucking painful. Because he’s there now. He’s always fucking _there_. At their lunch table, after school, shoved right into the cramped diner seats on the weekends. Weirder though, is that Lydia genuinely seems to like him.  Jackson still loathes his very existence (considering that Stiles once kidnapped him, Danny sort of understands. Man, but their pranks really got out of hand last year), but Lydia talks to him.  Not the sparse, insipid shit she usually pours over the peons of Beacon Hills, but really, really talks to him. They have inside jokes. They tease each other. They study. _Really_ study, like with books and advanced mathematical equations and too many highlighters. They’re friends.

 

“Explain to me your color system,” Lydia demands, her mouth pulled into a thin, glossy line. She steals one of Stiles fries. She fucking _eats_ it, at the lunch table. Her Coke isn’t even diet. Danny thinks this might be what a paradigm shift feels like.  “Where do you even find a red highlighter?”

 

“I order them in bulk on Amazon.” Stiles doesn’t flail, or spaz, or stammer - like he might have, before. He just grins, a mile-long thing that makes Danny inexplicably angry. “Can I have your calculus notes?”

 

Lydia isn’t even in Stiles Calculus class. She took it last semester. Danny is. Danny is two rows to the left and three back from Stiles. Stiles doesn’t ask him for his notes. Danny’s not surprised.

 

He thinks, though, that if there ever was a chance to gently insinuate himself into Stiles life, this would be it. If that were something Danny was interested in. Stiles and Lydia are friends. Danny and Lydia are friends! Their ven-diagram of friendships overlaps, and so it makes sense that maybe he and Stiles could be friends. But there’s this thing in his brain, that slithers and spits and it sounds just like Jackson when it hisses the word _freak_. Sometimes he thinks it might spill right out of his mouth with Stiles seated between Boyd and Lydia, gesticulating wildly as Lydia sneakily steals his fries.

 

Sometimes, he thinks it’s written on his face. _Freak freak freak._ So, he does his best to keep his face blank and calm. He answers with his usual brevity and wit, tells himself it’s just Jackson and Lydia and their friends, it’s fine, everything's fine. They’re nice, and they like him, and it’s not hard to just roll with it. Danny’s good at rolling with things.

 

It doesn’t work with Stiles of course. Stiles and his stupid questions. Stiles and his stupid mouth. Stiles and his stupid, wild eyes. Danny can’t fucking stand him, can’t stand to look at him, across the room, across the table, in the backseat of Lydia’s mini cooper. They’re friends now though, Lydia and Stiles, and he’s under her protection. So when Danny’s a little too loose with the brevity in his answers, she gives him the side-eye. The one that makes him feel small and chastised. The one she use to give other people who looked at Danny the wrong way.  It isn’t fair.. _Lydia_ told him Stiles was a freak. She made him believe it, just like Jackson. And now the word freak is so deeply embedded him, like a fucking bullet, Danny couldn’t cut it out with a knife.

 


	5. Fine, Don't Answer My Questions (or at least don't answer them with more goddamn questions)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next day, Stiles doesn’t sit with them at lunch. He doesn’t sit anywhere, actually. Anywhere in the cafeteria anyways. “He said he had research or something,” Scott explained distractedly, when Erica pressed. “That's why he ran off yesterday. Something about an idea.”
> 
>  
> 
> It’s all very Stiles, Danny thinks, but it still doesn’t sit right with him. He lets it go, because Scott believes Stiles, and Scott knows him better than anyone. Far better than Danny, at any rate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Beta. If there are any glaring mistakes, let me know and I'll get em' fixed! This chapter has ACTUAL DANNY AND STILES interaction! We're getting ready to launch into the beginning of their together-tail. It's not a sudden romance, okay. I don't work that way. 
> 
> See end notes for some bonus goodies about whats going on.

  


It goes on like this for months. Something, some unnamable force, had succeeded in marrying their odd group of friends and Danny’s helpless against it. They share something, all of them; Jackson, Lydia, Erica, Boyd, Isaac, Scott and Stiles. All of them, but Danny. He’s an outlier. The odd one.  They share something he can’t fathom. Sometimes it’s bruises, or hushed whispers, or things that he’s still too nervous to pry at.  Lydia has managed to rise above the need for popularity. Jackson...hasn’t, not quite. Competitiveness is in his blood. But he remains a constant at Lydia’s side.  Their immersion into the world of nobodies is so seamless, Danny doesn’t understand it. He follows. Thier lunch table is his lunch table. He doesn’t know how to be Danny without Jackson, he doesn’t know how to be himself. But...he feels like he’s riding coat tails. He doesn’t really feel like he belongs. He’s their friend, but he still feels like an outsider.

 

But maybe he's not alone in the feeling.

 

Stiles rises from the lunch table without so much as a word, gathering his bag but leaving his tray. He walks away just as silently, not bothering to turn back and wave or explain or anything. He just...leaves.

 

Scott’s eyes follow him, narrowed in curiosity, and maybe worry. But it doesn’t last; a moment later he’s fallen back into conversation with Isaac about the English mid-term, and do you think whatever-the-fuck will be on the test.  Danny’s not really sure if they’re together, but they’ve struck a bromance so fierce, it makes other people physically uncomfortable. Kind of like how Danny feels when Jackson asks Boyde to practice with him, and forgets to invite Danny too. Forgets.  

 

He never really asked about Allison. She was there one day, and gone the next. He’d heard about her mother and he understands her need to get away. But it seemed so much more impossibly grave. Not the kind of sympathetic pity you’d expect from teenage dirtbags.  There are shared looks, and a hush falls over their group every time Allison's name is mentioned. It’s like their mourning her death and not her mothers, when Danny’s pretty sure she just moved to France.

 

Jackson and Lydia are on the other side of the table, curled up around each other shamelessly. There’s a new air to them, a comfortable ease their relationship didn’t have last year. They seem happy, in a way they never did before.  The last few months have been quiet for them; no break ups, no fights, no catty competition. They’ve somehow turned into the kind of couple you can’t help but smile at when you see, because they work so well, so wonderfully you can’t even bring yourself to feel jealous.  Jackson of Today is not Jackson of Yesterday- something changed in the summer, something Danny has yet to really learn, but he won’t question it. Jackson is better for it.

 

Boyde and Erica are silent, but their faces are strangely grim. Their eyes follow Stiles as he crosses the cafeteria, and leaves through the side door, the one that pours out into the parking lot and not the halls.  It’s technically an emergency exit, but it’s clear that Stiles doesn’t care.

 

No one else notices. Or cares. Danny’s not sure.

  


***

 

The next day, Stiles doesn’t sit with them at lunch. He doesn’t sit anywhere, actually. Anywhere in the cafeteria anyways. “He said he had research or something,” Scott explained distractedly, when Erica pressed. “That's why he ran off yesterday. Something about an idea.”

 

It’s all very Stiles, Danny thinks, but it still doesn’t sit right with him. He lets it go, because Scott believes Stiles, and Scott knows him better than anyone. Far better than Danny, at any rate.

 

***

But when the next day comes, Scott doesn’t have an excuse. Or if he does, he doesn’t offer it because no one asks. Not even Danny, because Danny isn’t really friends with Stiles, so why would he? Except he wants too, because Danny felt like an outsider before, but Stiles...Stiles balanced that some how.

 

It takes Danny a moment to realize why and when he does, something slick and slimy settles in his stomach. The table is bursting with couples, Lydia and Jackson, Erica and Boyd, and Scott and Isaac, with their strange new bromance.  Danny endures though, because these are his friends, and he’s happy they're happy but it’s not exactly easy when they only have eyes for each other.

 

***

 

“You’ve been quiet,” Danny says awkwardly, hovering near the library table.  He’s suppose to be shelving the books, but then Stiles was just there, reading in perfect silence, in perfect stillness. So unlike him, that Danny feels inexplicably chilled.

 

“Have I?” Stiles looks up at him, amber eyes bright and dark all at once.  He’s wearing glasses, but they don’t look quite right. Like their not his, snd they don’t quite fit his face. The book he’s holding isn’t a library book, Danny would know, he works here after all and the library is pretty damn strict on their plastic dust jacket rules. This book is old, and dirty, and not in English.  There are other books, newer, with glossy covers stacked at Stiles side.  Judging from their titles, Danny would hazard a guess that he’s translating something, but for what? Beacon High only offers French, German and Spanish.  What Stiles is reading looks almost runic.

 

“Yes,” Danny says, after a long pause. Stiles is still staring at him, lashes fluttering against his pale cheeks. It casts shadows against his skin, long and bent like spider legs. He looks as if he hasn’t seen the sun in weeks, or a bed for that matter, judging from the smudges of purple beneath his eyes. “It’s...unnerving.”

 

Stiles expression doesn’t change and that...that’s unnerving too. Because Stiles face has always been an open book, not a blank page. “Is it?”

 

“Yes,” Danny barks, tired of questions, of little answers. “You’re making everyone nervous.”

 

A smile shifts across Stiles face, but it’s not the wide ,white thing Danny remembers from last year, or only a few short months ago. What happened, what weren’t the others telling him? This smile...it makes Danny want to step away. It’s distant, and cold, and maybe a little empty.  It’s not the thing he use to dream about. “Am I?”

 

Danny doesn’t blanch, but it’s a close thing. It’s true, no one has actually said anything about Stiles, but Danny knows if they noticed, they would. Lydia seemed...curious. Concerned maybe, in a Lydia-way. Erica and Boyd knew something they weren’t telling, too. But no one had actually said anything. “It doesn’t mean they don’t care.”

 

Stiles closes the book with a snap. The flutter of dust sparkles in the shaft of light pouring in from the long windows. He slides it into his bag, and leaves the rest on the table for Danny to shelve. Laughing as he rises, he casts Danny one more curious look. “Doesn’t it?”

 

He doesn’t say good bye, doesn’t trip or flail or even wave. He simply leaves, and Danny wonders once again what happened?

 

***

 

Someone gets it in their head to go minigolfing. It’s suppose to be a friendly outing, just the gang getting together and having fun. It’s a fucking triple date, with two tag-a-longs, because Stiles comes, much to Danny’s surprise.

 

“Sorry we’re late,” Erica offers, curled as she always is, around Boyde. “Had to hitch a ride with Stiles.”

 

Scott grins wildly when he sees him, and pulls him into a crushing hug. “Where’ve you been, man?” He asks, which surprises Danny too. Hadn’t he been the one to invite Stiles? “I tried calling you the other day--”

 

Stiles smiles, bright eyes shining and wrong. No one seems to notice. “That was like over a week ago man,” he says lightly, but the words fall like lead from his mouth. “You asked if I still had my chem notes from last year.”

 

“Oh yeah.” Scotts still grinning, like forgetting he hadn’t talked to his best friend in over a week was no big deal. “Thanks man, those notes saved my ass.”

 

Stiles nods, rocks on his heels and shrugs  it off. “Wasn’t a problem dude,” he says easily, as he pays for his club and bright red golf ball. “We should get started; I have to be home early tonight”

 

Erica pouts. “We were going to go grab dinner at the diner after. Sure you can’t stick around?” She’s hanging off Boyde as she asks, but Danny can hear the genuine plea in her voice. “Haven’t seen you in ages, Batman.”

 

Something tightens in Stiles face, but his smile doesn’t fade. “As much as I hate to say no to a pretty lady, I really do have to be home before dark.”

 

“Deputy Dad got a curfew on you?” Jackson teases, elbowing Stiles nearly gently in the arm. It’s mocking, but not cruel. Danny’s impressed.

 

“That’s Sheriff Dad to you,” Stiles deflects, and it isn’t an answer to Jackson’s question, but nobody presses. Nobody notices. But then, if Stiles is good at nothing else, he’s a pro at deflecting.

 

The night is strange. The moon hangs half-full in the sky, a white frozen smile. Stiles isn’t exactly his typical rambunctious self, but he’s grinning and loud and funny at all the right moments, as he puts around the mini-course. They finish their game early, and head for the Beacon Hills boardwalk that wraps around the the local beach park, and it’s nice, it’s easy, it’s fun.  

 

Danny doesn’t miss the way that Scott and Isaac have buddied up. They aren’t actively trying to push Stiles out, but they seem to share a common-ground Stiles does not.  Danny isn’t sure exactly what it is -maybe the vet thing, Isaac's been volunteering- but even he can’t bring himself to interrupt whatever it is they’re talking about so excitedly. He can’t imagine how Stiles feels. He wants to ask. He doesn’t.

 

Still, it’s nice. They walk, and talk, and posture like typical males. Lydia and Erica link arms, and talk about lip gloss or hair products or whatever it is girls talk about. (Danny has absolutely no interest there, girls are a strange, frightening breed to him and that includes majority of their beauty rituals, mani pedis excluded, of course) They go so far as to pull Stiles between them on occasion, and tease him about his terrible wardrobe choices, nimble fingers plucking at the buttons of his usual plaid, and running through his longer locks. But when night falls, so does Stiles, going quiet and still as the clouds turn orange and pink over head.

 

“I better go,” he says to no one in particular, scuffing his foot along the boardwalk. “Hey Jackson, you think you can take Boyd and Erica home?”

 

Jackson makes a face, irritated but not annoyed. There’s a subtle difference, maybe only Danny can read it. Who knows. “I’ve only got room in my car for one more.”

 

“Actually,” Danny cuts in quickly, seeing the panic flicker across Stiles face. Something is up. “I think I’m going to head home too. Let the couples have their fun.”

 

He doesn’t miss the fact that Scott and Isaac don’t protest. This might be because they didn’t hear him, still caught up in their own bubble, just up the path. Or not.4

“You don’t mind, do you Stiles?”

 

Stiles hesitates, and Danny isn’t sure what to make of it. “Nah, of course not.”

***

 

Stiles jeep is weirdly clean. Danny had expected fast food wrappers, and books, and clothes, and lacrosse gear. Typical clutter; Stiles is a cluttered person, after all. Internally, anyway. But there isn’t anything save for the new-looking seat covers and the heavy smell of chemical vanilla pouring off the tiny tree hanging on the rearview mirror.  “Thanks,” Danny says, as Stiles pulls out of the park. “Sorry if I imposed.”

 

“It’s...it’s fine.” Stiles blinks, eyeing the clock on the dash, and then the overhead sky. “You live up on Maple and Vine, right? Near Mancotti’s?”

 

“Yeah.” It’s not really out of the way. Nothing is, in Beacon Hills. But it’s not near Stiles neighborhood either. “I won’t make you late, will I?”

 

“I won’t be late,” Stiles confirms, but something in his voice tells this for a lie. “It’s fine.”

 

“We could just go to your house, and I could cut through the woods?” Through the woods, it’s probably only a fifteen minute walk. There are even paths. Danny doesn’t mind.

 

“It’ll be dark out,” Stiles says slowly, hands flexing on the steering wheel. “I can drive you, it’s fine. I just need to be home before dark.”

 

A drop of sweat forms at Stiles temple, and Danny is fascinated. He looks clammy and pale and not at all well.. “Stiles....” Danny says slowly. “I don’t think you’ll make it.”

 

“I will,” Stiles tells him, eyes only for the road. “I have too.”

 

“Stiles,” Danny says a little more firmly because Stiles is starting to freak him out. “Just take me to your place. I’ll have Jackson come get me after he takes Lydia home.”

 

“I...” He swallows. “You’re sure?”

 

“It’s not a problem,” Danny assures him because Stiles hands have already relaxed on the wheel, his shoulders losing half their tension. “It might be a while; Lydia’s mom isn’t home. You don’t mind if I hang out, do you?”

 

Danny has never actually hung out with Stiles, for all that their circles have collided. Studying doesn’t count. He’s not sure if Stiles even wants to hang out with him, or anyone, given his disappearing act lately.  The old Stiles would have already babbled an answer by now, but this Stiles is quiet for a long moment, eye sliding to Danny, and then back to the road.

 

“Sure. Yeah. Okay.”

 

Danny knows somethings wrong by the time they park, and Stiles hands are shaking as he tries to get the key in the door. He stumbles inside and barely waits for Danny to step inside before he’s slamming the door and locking the deadbolt.

 

“Stiles,” Danny says slowly, grabbing the boy by the elbow. “Are you alright?”

 

Stiles jerks out of his grip almost violently. He swallows, and barks out a laugh. “Yeah. Uh. Yes. Sorry. Medicine,” he barks out, jerking his head toward the kitchen. “Forgot to take my meds, I have to take them at the same time every day and I forgot to bring them and---”

 

“Oh.” Oh, Danny thinks. Oh, because that makes a little more sense. Danny doesn’t know much about adderall or whatever, but it makes sense that you’d have to take it the same time everyday. “Yeah, alright. Shit. Go ahead. Do you want to drive me back afterwards or we could hang?”

 

“We...we can hang out,” Stiles says, stiltedly. He stares at Danny's, eyes narrowing suddenly, suspiciously. “Wait, why? You don’t want to hang out with me. You don’t even like me.”

 

Danny freezes, embarrassed to be called out so baldly.  Stiles can usually be counted on to mix words, and spread the truth as thin as possible, without ever coming out and saying it. “I don’t not like you,” he says slowly, because while Stiles can be an annoying little shit, Danny doesn’t really know him.

 

He knows even less, these days. He’s sure he’s not alone in the boat.

 

Stiles still looks suspicious, and not his usual suspicions that promises something either amusing or tragically second-hand-shame inducing. It’s...wary. Dangerous even, the way he’s eyeing Danny like he can’t be trusted.

 

Danny sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe I don’t want to spend all night by myself, you know? Everyone’s...”

 

“Doubled up,” Stiles barks out a laugh, but it’s hard if nothing else and Danny doesn’t like it. “Coupled.”

 

“Scott and Isaac---”

 

“If they haven’t, they will,” Stiles cuts him off, giving him a rueful grin. “I know what Scotts like when he’s falling in love. He probably doesn’t even realize it. I’m pretty sure the awkward-boner talk is coming up.” He scratches at the back of his neck, and shifts uneasily. “You thirsty?”

 

“Sure,” Danny says, though he isn’t.  He follows Stiles into the kitchen. He fumbles in the fridge, pulling out cans of coke. The crack of the pop-tops is too loud in the quiet kitchen. “So...uh.”

 

“Movie?” The suggestion is quiet, and doesn’t at all match the glitter of Stiles eyes in the darkened kitchen. “I promise to be quiet.”

 

“I don’t care if you talk.” He feels...compelled to say it. To take some of the weight of Stiles shoulders. Jackson always complained about how much Stiles talked. How baffling it was that someone could say so much and at the same time, nothing at all. About how it made him such a freak. “I don’t.”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Everyone cares, Danny boy. If I talk too much, just tell me to shut up.”

 

“I don’t care if you talk,” Danny says again, firmly. “Come on. We can watch Pacific Rim. I know you have it.”

 

Stiles smiles. It’s small, curious, but it looks more right on his face than anything else Danny’s seen all night.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. Stiles is struggling through the Nogistune. Yes, I skipped some stuff. Did it happen off screen? Eh, maybe. Stiles will NOT go through the same trials with the Nogistune in this as he did before. And as much as I love Kira and Liam and such, I won't be introducing them to his fic. Roll with me, kay?


	6. The Moon In The Sky (like a big piece of pie) that's demonic possession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I thought you were afraid of the dark,” Danny says after a long, and thunderous minute. “Before. Coming back from the boardwalk.”
> 
> Stiles chuckles, a quiet little thing that hits the roof and grates against Danny’s spine. “No one’s really afraid of the dark, Danny Boy. No, they’re afraid of what’s in it. What they can’t see.” He flashes another sharp-edged smile Danny’s way. “It’s more...a fear of the unknown.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STILES AND DANNY ACTUALLY TALK IN THIS ONE. 
> 
>  
> 
> or do they. 
> 
> READ AND FIND OUT MUTTHA EFFAS. 
> 
> also don't kill me.

Jesus Christ. That’s a pretty face.

 

Danny contemplates texting Jackson to come fucking rescue him. Because this isn’t good. This is bad. Stiles is perched cross-legged on the couch, head tipped back to expose his freckled neck. He has wispy patches of teenage stubble on the curve of his jaw, and his lashes are still as stupidly long as they were three years ago.  He’s sleeping, upright like he just can’t help it, and Danny is staring like the spectacular creep he is.  The credits finish, and the DVD skips back to the menu screen, and the sudden rush of noise cracks like gunshot in the quiet, shadow-drunk room.

“Full moon,” Stiles mutters, sleep-slurred and apropos of nothing at all. “Full moon, Danny boy.”

 

“What?” It’s not though. The moon hangs in the sky, a silver sliver behind pale, saturated clouds.  “Wait, what?”

 

“Mahealani.” The way that Stiles unfolds, makes him seem so much more impossibly long; like spider legs. “It means....full moon.”

 

“Uh. Yeah.” His Nona had a been a bit of a nut, and liked to dance under the full moons completely naked, to celebrate their namesake. Danny is very much aware of what it means. “Why’s it funny?”

 

Stiles just laughs. It’s--it doesn’t sound right. It’s his laugh, but there’s an echo to it that Danny can’t place. Like it’s coming from a speaker, and not Stiles’ mouth. It’s....chilling. “It must be nice, Danny-Boy.”

 

“Nice?” Danny leans back as Stiles leans forward, like polar-magnets. “What do you---”

“Ignorance really is bliss, I guess.” Stiles blinks, and his gaze drifts to the window. “We should get slushies.”

 

Briefly, Danny considers asking what Stiles means by ignorance. He considers saying no, no thank you. Because Stiles is freaking out. But...but Danny isn’t sure why. There isn’t anything particularly disconcerting about Stiles at any given time, and now is no different. Really it isn’t. “Oh....Kay.” He can drop Danny off on the way back. It make sense. It’s fine. It’s just Stiles.

 

As they’re pulling out of the driveway, Danny frowns. Stiles knuckles are loose on the steering wheel, and he’s leaned back lazy in the chair. It’s such a juxtaposition to his previous tension, Danny can’t ignore it. “Hey, did you take your meds?”

 

“What?” Stiles blinks for a moment, frowning with his whole face. “Oh yeah, sure.”

 

It’s a lie. A good one. No minced words, or extrapolated stories. Just a simple cut-and-dry yes. It’s unlike Stiles, who uses words like a weapon. It’s...too clean. It’s a good lie, and Danny would believe it, except... He doesn’t remember Stiles ever leaving his sight. He doesn’t remember him taking anything, not in the kitchen, or in the living room. He didn’t even drink his coke.  He seems fine though, as he rolls a stop light, and pulls onto the highway. He seems like Stiles, tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel, legs cramped under the column. It’s all very Stiles-ish.

 

Except.

 

Except....what?

 

“I thought you were afraid of the dark,” Danny says after a long, and thunderous minute. “Before. Coming back from the boardwalk.”

 

Stiles chuckles, a quiet little thing that hits the roof and grates against Danny’s spine. “No one’s really afraid of the dark, Danny Boy. No, they’re afraid of what’s in it. What they can’t see.” He flashes another sharp-edged smile Danny’s way. “It’s more...a fear of the unknown.”

 

Danny doesn’t know what to say to that. So he doesn’t say anything at all.

 

Stiles gets cherry. Danny settles for Coke. Stiles pays with a crisp five dollar bills, leaves his change on the counter as he saunters back to the door, making Danny trail in his wake. It’s oddly Jacksonesque of him, sauntering. He doesn’t climb back into the jeep right away, but leans against the passenger side fender, red straw caught between his teeth.

 

He’s....quiet.

 

Danny’s not sure what to make of that.

 

“So what's really up with you and the guys?” He doesn’t lean against the jeep, just hovers awkwardly near the back tire, palming his too-cold Slushie. “You’ve been skipping lunch, and stuff.” He doesn’t know why he asks, except...Danny’s a curious guy and the table feels weird without Stiles irritating chatter. “I meant it when I said they were worried.”

 

“Whats going on with me and the guys,” Stiles repeats, long and drawn and decidedly mocking.  There’s a mean edge to his tone that Danny’s not use too. Stile is an asshole, but he’s very rarely mean. “Okay. I’ll deal. It’s like...Everyone has that one shirt they really love, right? That they wear into oblivion, until it’s thin and torn and stretched out and ugly. Out of style. But they keep wearing it, even when it’s more hole than whole; because it’s comfortable. Maybe ‘because it’s habit, who the fuck knows. It’s simile not science. They grow and the shirt doesn’t, and it bursts at the seems and then their left standing their naked.  That’s kind of what happened with me and the guys.”

 

Actual crickets chirp in the silence that settles between them when Stiles finish speaking. Once. Twice. Chirp. Chirp. Danny can’t stand it. “Which one of you is the shirt in that scenario?”

 

“Whichever one of us tears first, I suppose.” Stiles gaze trips away. “Oh look. It’s Mrs. Yukimura.”

 

“Mrs--- Who? Stiles---”

 

But Stiles has already pressed up off the Jeep, long legs striding across the small parking lot. Danny follows. He can’t not.

 

An asian lady is pumping gas. She reminds Danny a bit of his own mother, with dark hair worn straight and long down her back.  She looks up as they approach, shoulders tensing and Danny has enough respect for Lucy Lu and all the other underrepresented Asian badass females to maybe take a step back before getting karate chopped in the balls.   
  
“Can I help you?” She asks, slender brow arched.

 

“Just saying hi,” Stiles says brightly, digging both hands into his pockets, and rocking on his heels. Danny has seen him do it a thousand times in the years he’s known him, but this time...it’s...Stilted. Stiff.

“I’m not sure we know each other.” Her smile doesn’t waver, but her eyes shift between Danny and Stiles once, and then twice. “I’m new in town. I’m sure we’ve never met.

 

“Well now I’m just offended.” Stiles steps forward then, close enough to touch her, and it startles Danny. Startles him enough that he grabs Stiles, takes hold of his elbow and pulls, but Stiles doesn’t move. He’s immovable, strong as stone, and Danny nearly goes tumbling on his ass. “But I guess it’s been a while, Noshiko. Crazy how faces can change. But I gotta say; you’ve hardly aged at all.” He steps back, suddenly and grins. He takes Danny by the elbow, the same way Danny tried to grab him. “Come on Danny Boy, we should get you home.”

 

Danny shakes him off, once they’ve reached the jeep. “What the hell was that, Stiles? You scared her.” It’s so baffling, that Stiles could scare anyone, but honestly...he was scaring Danny right now.

 

Stiles stares at him through the Jeep and he looks, in that moment, a thousand years old. Then, he takes a long, loud slurp of his slushie. It looks like blood on his pale lips. “That’s another one of those questions you’d rather not ask, Danny boy. Ignorance is bliss, remember?”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Danny’s palms go clammy, as he slides into the passenger seat. He feels stupid, standing there holding a melting slushy. “You’re acting crazy.”

 

Stiles snorts, a derisive little nose that makes Danny bristle even if he can’t say why. “Daniel means God will Judge. You think that’s true?”

 

“Who cares?” Danny can’t help the incredulous look that crosses his face. “What the hell does that matter? What does Stiles mean?”

 

The look that earns him is...dry and dark and somewhat familiar on Stiles face. “You don’t actually think that’s my real name, do you?”

 

“What?” But yeah, Danny did think that. He’s never heard Stiles called anything else. Hell, the Sheriff calls him Stiles. “I mean...”

 

“It’s not.” Stiles says shortly. “But to answer your question, my name means....nothing at all.” He pauses, to smile. Danny swallows. “A Void.”

 

 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there won't be A LOT of Void in this. I have ideas. But I did kind of want him in it, because let's be real Dylan O'Brien fucking nailed it in that season. He was killing it (somewhat literally)


	7. Hole Punch (the dangly bit is called a chad, and I've never med a chad I didn't hate)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I will punch you in your whole face,” Jackson says, between his teeth. as they’re leaving the locker rooms after practice. Danny cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of Stiles across the field, stretching for a long run. He’d dropped lacrosse for track at the beginning of the year and---it’s good for him. “You’re not even trying to be subtle anymore.”
> 
> “I don’t want too,” Danny’s mouth says, with absolutely no permission from his brain. But he finds once the words are out, he can’t stop. “I like him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a big chapter with a LOT going on it it. It picks up where the last chapter in danny's POV left off. 
> 
> there are moments. 
> 
> Also some light warnings for the derogatory use of 'fag' and such. 
> 
> No beta. However, I am taking volunteers to retro-beta stuff if y'all are interested.

Danny’s only just closed the jeep door, in the driveway of his house, when Stiles clears his throat. “We’re friends, aren’t we Danny?”

 

“I---” They’re not. Not really. Tonight was weird, and only served to prove that Danny doesn’t know anything about Stiles that can’t be gathered by years of distant-observation. Danny doesn’t know anything more about Stiles, than Stiles could know about, say....Lydia. “I don’t know.”

 

Stiles barks out a laugh, another echoing thing that escapes him from everywhere, and not just his mouth. “I like that. I like you, Danny Mahealani.” His smile curls, private and quiet and it shouldn’t make Danny’s stomach clench, warm and squirmy, but it does. “God will Judge the full moon.” He winks, like Danny and he share a secret. “But first, he has to notice it.”

 

His tires squeal across the pavement as he tears down Danny’s road. If he looks back, Danny doesn’t notice. He stands there though, watching until the baby-blue of the jeep disappears into the darkness.

 

***

 

The next day, after third period, Danny slams his locker door only to find himself face-to-face with Stiles, again.  He startles, nearly dropping his chem books. “Holy shit.”

 

“Danny!” Stiles voice is bright, but his eyes are wild. Not like the depthless dark things Danny saw last night. He looks...frantic. “Danial. Dan-O. I uh...I fell asleep last night, huh?”

 

“You looked like you needed it.” He still does. He looks as if he hadn’t slept since he dropped Danny off last night. “It’s fine. Whatever. But seriously, what the hell was up with you last night? You were acting really weird.” It occurs to Danny that perhaps he wasn’t. Danny doesn’t know enough about him.

 

“I---was?” Stiles frowns. “Wait, when?”

 

“When we stopped by the Seven-Eleven for slushies, and you practically assaulted a woman?” And okay, that was kind of an exaggeration. But Still. Stiles had been monumentally creeptastic. Freaky, even. It made Danny’s skin crawl. “I thought she was going to ninja-kick you in the testicles, Stilinski!”

 

“I--what?” He blinks, mouth pursing. Danny looks away, feels heat burn his cheeks. “No, no. I was just. I mean, I would never--”

 

“Of course you wouldn’t.” Danny sighs. This is all very tiring. But in the light of day, Stiles seems somewhat less....Not-Stiles. “I don’t know. I think you might of scared her. What was her name? Noshiko? How did you even know her?”

 

“Noshiko,” Stiles echos, his gaze going distant and dark. “Uh. Old friend. Old family friend. She never really liked me.”

 

“Well I’m not fucking surprised,” Danny keeps his voice dry. “I have to get to class.”

 

“I’ll see you around?” It lilts like a question, saturated in syrupy hesitance and Danny should tell Stiles no. They’re not friends. Last night was weird, and not exactly Danny’s kind of fun.  Stiles just proved everything Jackson had been saying for years; he’s a freak.

 

“You could try sitting at the lunch table,” he says, instead. It’s not particularly a commitment to anything, but it’s not rude either.

 

Stiles looks away, and it’s like watching a door slam shut. Danny visibly watches something shutter close, inside him. “I’ll see you around, Danny-Boy.”

 

Like the night before, Danny watches him disappear into the crowd. Jackson finds him standing there, even as the cluster of students has began to thin, holding his books and notes. “Stay away from Stilinski,” he says, apropos of nothing at all.

 

“Yeah yeah,” Danny waves a hand at him, and feels his heart stick to his throat. “He’s a freak. Whatever.”

 

“No, just---” Jackson stops, long enough that Danny turns to make sure he’s still there. “I mean yeah. He is.”

 

***

Only days pass, when Stiles folds himself down into the lunch chair across from Danny, a tired smile stretched across his face. No one comments on it. On his absence, his strangeness. They just welcome him back into the fold with teasing tones and hair-ruffles. When the warning bell rings, Stiles looks less tired.  Danny offers him the chem notes he missed, and all the assignments for their shared computer class.

 

Danny’s not...He’s not ignorant. He can see the way they orbit Stiles now. The way the circle him with soft eyes.  Something happened - something to bind this rag-tag group of people together even tighter.  It’s almost a tangible, touchable thing.  Danny’s not ignorant. He’s just....not ready.

***

“What the holy hell is that?”

 It's poor locker room etiquette. Very poor locker room etiquette. His uncles are cringing somewhere, and they don't know why. But Danny? Danny can't help himself. 

 

 

Stiles flails, arms over his head, as he struggles into his shirt. "Uh---" 

 

Danny drops his hand quickly, embarrassed by his own gall. “Sorry. I was just...surprised.”

 

Head popping from the collar, Stiles grins. “I get that.” He rolls his sleeve up, just enough to expose the thick black lines of black.  “They’re Oni marks. Um. Like...Japanese protection ruins.”

 

“They’re tattoos,” Danny argues flatly, because Stiles Stilinski has tattoos. More than one, judging from the peek of black hiding beneath the roll of his cuffs. “And you’re not Japanese. I thought you were Jewish!”

 

“Okay. One, Judaism is a religion, not a race. Two, I actually have a little Japanese in me.” He casts Danny a wry, strange smile. “It’s a new discovery.  I’m exploring my heritage.”

 

Danny has the dumbest urge to reach out and touch the mark. It’s not smooth, like the tattoos he’s seen before. It’s raised and rough, like it was painted over a scar. He secures the towel around his waist more tightly, instead.“Oh. So.. is that lady is your Aunt or something?”

 

“That---Oh, Noshiko? Um. No. Family friend.” He blinks. “Like I said before. But yeah, she had something to do with this.” He waves his arm a little, as if to prove a point.  “We’re cool now though. Sorry I dragged you into that. I was working through some stuff.” He shrugs. “Revelations. About myself. This helps.”   

 

“Because finding out you're part Japanese is so life-changing.” Even as he says it, he feels himself flinch, as an awful realization settles in.  Stiles is probably talking about his real father. His blood father. Who he told, in confidence, was not the Sheriff.  And Danny’s making fun of him. He flushes, and changes the subject. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for the tattoo type. Aren’t you terrified of needles?”

 

There’s a pause, odd and strange and Danny doesn’t get it until Stiles clears his throat. “Uh. Yes. Though, I have no idea why you’d know that.”

 

Oh God. If he wasn’t blushing before, he probably is now. “Probably overheard you and Scott. You guys aren’t exactly q known for your secrets.”

 

Stiles laughs, bright and light and he looks happier than Danny remember seeing in an uncomfortably long time (uncomfortable because Danny is forced to acknowledge how long he’s been looking).  “That’s...that’s funny Danny. That’s hilarious. You’re hilarious.”

 

“Do they uh....Do they mean anything?”  It’s a dumb question. People get chinese symbols all the time though, thinking they mean HAPPY or INSPIRATION when really they mean something weird like pants or cockroach.  Stiles marks though, don’t look like any lettering Danny’s seen before. They look harsh, and intimidating.  Like a warning.

 

“They’re hard to explain.” Stiles scratched absently at one of the marks, and Danny has the most inexplicable urge to smack his hand away. “They’re like...locks. They symbolize locks. Sorry - I wish I could explain it better. They’re Oni Marks,” he adds, with a wild look in his eye. “Demon marks. You know. If you want to google it. Which why would you? I mean that’s probably weird. But if you want too. Oni. O-N-I. Um. Yeah. They’re sort of personal.”

 

“Of course,” Danny agrees because...because he can tell. In everything he can’t see in the ink, everything hidden at the edges of perception...it bleeds personal. “I uh...I should. Go. It was nice seeing you.”

 

That flushed smile turns bemused -not an expression common on Stiles face. “You should probably get dressed first.”

 

Considering he’s wearing little more than the house-provided flip-flops and towel...Danny thinks Stiles is right.

 

*

 

He stares a little harder after that -apparently that’s possible.  But he can’t shake the image of ink on Stiles pale skin, can’t shake the fantasy of tracing the water color lines with the tip of his tongue, with his teeth---

 

It’s like being fifteen all over again, with his first unrelenting boner. There’s just something about them that Danny wants to unravel. Something about Stiles. But then, that’s always been true. It's the juxtaposition of Goofy Stiles Stilinski and Tattoo'd Stiles Stilinski that's tripping him up. But then, Danny is quickly learning that there's a lot he doesn't know about Stiles. It makes him stare harder. Danny just can’t stop.

 

“I will punch you in your whole face,” Jackson says, between his teeth as they’re leaving the locker rooms after practice. Danny cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of Stiles across the field, stretching for a long run. He’d dropped lacrosse for track at the beginning of the year and---it’s good for him. “You’re not even trying to be subtle anymore.”

 

“I don’t want too,” Danny’s mouth says, with absolutely no permission from his brain. But he finds once the words are out, he can’t stop. “I like him.”

 

Jackson’s shoulder fall, but the tension doesn’t fade. this is his resignation stance. “You say that to me, like it could have possibly been a secret. Jesus Christ dude, you have been pining over him for years---”

 

“I have,” Danny admits, and it feels...bone-crushing, really. Scary. His heart is going to fly out of his chest. It’s absolutely devastating that Jackson knew all this time, about Danny’s crush, and still went out of his way to make him feel fucking awful about it. He puts that aside, shoves it down where it can’t hurt him. He looks at Jackson, helpless. Tired. “Why can’t I like him, Jax?  Why won’t you let me?”

 

“He’s no good for you.” Jackson's voice is dark, as he fiddles with his phone, the vein in his temple throbbing.

 

“He’s nice,” Danny says, more sharply than Jackson is use to, if the way he flinches is anything to go by. “He’s not a dick, he’s not married, he’s not a serial killer. ”

 

“He’s weird,” Jackson whines, pulling Danny along toward the parking lot. “He never shuts up. Dude, you are all about your zen or whatever. You’d never get a minute of calm.”

 

“He can be quite.” Danny’s seen it. He’s seen Stiles fall into a book, and get lost between the pages. It’s probably one of the most beautiful things he’s ever witnessed and yeah he realizes that's his insane crush talking, but a Stiles's at ease is...it’s amazing.

 

His eyes narrow, brows pulled together. His mouth falls open, into a pout. He doesn’t chew on his pen, his thumb, his sleeve, his lip; he is still, he is quiet.  Nothing about him moves but his eyes as they scan the pages. Danny has watched him like this for hours at the public library where he went to hide from his older brothers...and no one, no one ever, needs to know that because it’s weird.

 

Danny deflates. He won’t win this, not against Jackson. Not for Stiles. Still...“Why won’t you let me be happy?”

 

Jackson turns on his heels. “He’s straight,” he snaps, towering over Danny. “He’s straight; I would know, he’s been panting after my girlfriends ass for years. He’s straight Danny, and he’ll never want you like that so why does it even matter?”

 

Danny knows this of course, knows that his crush on Stiles is as ridiculous as Stiles crush on Lydia - they are both pining after people they can’t have, people who barely notice them. ...But, that’s not what he asked. “Would it matter if he wasn’t, Jax? If he was into me, would you change your mind?”

 

“Fuck no!” Jackson thorws up his hands. “Because he’d still be a fucking freak, and I’d still fucking hate him, and you’d still be too good for him.  God dammit Danny, it’s one thing to be a fucking fag, but to be gagging for that freaks dick---”

 

Danny reels. In all the years he’d known Jackson, Jax has never called him that.

 

“What the hell did you just say Jackson?”

 

Oh no. Just. No. Danny cannot believe this is happening. Somehow, during his conversation with Jackson, Stiles made his way across the field.

 

“Stay out of this Stilinsk----” Jackson doesn’t get to finish. He doesn’t get to finish because he’s clutching his nose, blood seeping between his fingers. The crunching sound of broken bones echoes in Danny’s ear. Stiles punched Jackson.

 

Stiles punched Jackson. For Danny.

 

“Go,” Stiles snaps, pointing at the gate. His voice is harder than Danny has ever heard, shaking with something unnameable. That dark thing, from the night at the gas-station, flickers behind his eyes.  Danny’s surprised when Jackson does go, knees jerking with every step, like he doesn’t want to but has too. “I swear to god Jackson, if you don’t go it’ll only get worse.”

 

It’s...it’s the light, or the wind, or Danny’s own fucked up mind but...but he swears Stiles eyes go pale as he speaks. If only for a moment. Then it’s gone.

 

It was just the light.

 

 

 

When Jackson is finally gone, Danny frowns. “He...drove me here.” It’s not the right thing to say, but it is mildly important in the moment. Danny doesn’t have a ride home.

 

“Let me grab my bag, I’ll take you home,” Stiles says firmly, mouth still pulled into a tight line. His eyes are narrowed at nothing in particular, hands clenched at his side. Danny wonders if his hand hurts, if there's blood on his knuckles. It shouldn’t be turning him on, but oh God it is.  Stiles is....he’s sexy like this, all worked up and angry and Danny is not right. He really isn’t. But now that he’s admitted his crush to the world - to Jackson at least - it’s like his mind won’t fucking stop.

 

“What about your practice? You can’t just skip for me.” Where Stiles failed spectacularly at Lacrosse, he excelled at cross country.  Running was his thing, distance, speed - Stiles had earned his place as Captain of the running team.  Sometimes Danny sees him out jogging through the ‘burbs. Sometimes it’s because he’s looking for him, but no one needs to know that. “You’re captain.”

 

“I got in early anyway,” Stiles waves off his worries. “Coach won’t mind.”

 

***

 

Stiles doesn’t take him home. He takes him out to eat, a little diner on Parks and Fifth, right across from the police station. “Come on,” he wheedles, flashing Danny one of those brain-melting grins that makes Danny forget why he avoids being alone with Stiles.“My treat.”

 

Over a plate of fries they share (is this a date), Stiles tells him stories Danny’s never heard before. He had thought such things were rare, how much could Stiles have left to talk about. (It’s not a date)But...

 

“Can I tell you something?” Stiles asks, not looking up from his ketchup soaked fry.

 

“Of course.”

 

“My mother was a huge homophobe.” It comes out quiet, not a whisper, but still said with shame. “A firm believer in Adam and Eve, gay-bashing homophobe. She even went to protests.”

 

Danny isn’t...he’s not sure why Stiles is telling him this. His heart is stuck in his throat.

 

“She use to tell me...when we would see gay couples, she would say ‘It’s disgusting Stiles, they’ll burn in hell’, and I believed her, you know. I was seven. Maybe eight. I believed her.”

 

“Stiles---”

 

“Shh,” Stiles hushes him, with a tiny smile. “I’m telling a story.  Anyway, I know it’s a generation thing. That some people can’t let go of those old beliefs. My mother was raised to believe it was a sin. So she raised me the same way.  And like I said, I believed it, until I was maybe ten, and I don’t know...it didn’t seem wrong to me.  I said as much to my mom once, and...and she slapped me.” His eyes are wide, but his mouth is still moving.

 

“It’s the only time she ever did, don’t look at me that way. But...it’s my worst memory of her. And it’s hard, because...all I have are memories, so I want so badly for them to all be good. My mom was a wonderful mother, and a great person. She volunteered at the hospital, she read to sick children, and she gardened and baked cookies for school fundraisers, but she was also this horrible, horrible bigot and---” Breathing heavily through his nose, Stiles sighs. “It’s like a big scar through all the good my mother was.”

 

“So I’m sitting here right now, thinking about what she would think if she knew I was friends with you, or that half my phone contact list was filled with drag queens. Would she still love me?” Stiles smiles. “I’d like to think she would, that she’d change her mind and realize it didn’t make me bad, and I let myself believe that because it’s easier than thinking she’d have...not.” He eats another fry. “It’s easier to believe that I could never hate my mother, like I hate Jackson right now.”

 

“Jackson didn’t mean---”

  
“He wanted to hurt you,” Stiles cuts him off. “He used that word, specifically to hurt you. I’m not one of those white-knight types who gets all up in arms at every drop of the word fag and gay and whatever. But Jackson is your friend and he used that word like a weapon and that is just not okay. I’m not sorry. I hope I broke his face.”


	8. Apropos of Nothing (but I propose we make out)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny can’t help but grin. Something about Jackson knowing - even if it came with the soul-crushing realization that Jackson had always known- makes Danny want to do something stupid like kiss Stiles on the mouth in the middle of the school parking lot apropos of nothing but his own mad desires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've finally, after how many chapters, have reached Danny-and-Stiles real interaction. Not in this chapter. In the next one. Aww yess. Promise not to make you wait as long for an update!

“I’m sorry.”

 

It’s said with an ever-so-slight lisp.  Jackson’s upper lip is swollen, where Stiles’ fist caught it. His nose is a mottled purple mess. It is, Danny thinks, the first time he’s seen Jackson look anything but perfect in a long while.  Stiles packs a punch, apparently.

 

Danny doesn’t reply.

 

“Danny,” Jackson wheedles, leaning against the lockers. “You know I would never say---”

 

“Except that you did.” Danny slams the locker door hard enough that Jackson winces. “It’s not even what you said, Jackson. It’s what you fucking did. It’s what you always fucking do. What is your problem with Stiles? Because I’ve never understood it.”

 

“I don’t---” Jackson makes a face. It’s The Face. The one that tells Danny that Jackson knows he’s being a dick, but he’s not particularly inclined to stop. It’s a sour-grapes kind of face, something like he’s smelled rotten eggs. It’s very Jackson. Danny---doesn’t want to see it. “He’s weird.”

 

“You’ve been a fucking weirdo too, lately.” Danny’s heart hammers in his chest, and the thin line of ignorance shimmers like a tangible thing between him. “And yet, here I fucking am.”

 

“Danny,” Jackson says again, and this time the word is small. Hurt. His shoulders are slouched, and a niggling of guilt wedges into Danny’s frontal lobe. “You know I’m just looking out for you.”

 

At that, Danny deflates. Not because Jackson is right, but because he’s just...tired of this shit. “You know, I want to believe that.” And he does. He really fucking does, because Jackson and he--- they’re best friends. They’re bros. They’re brothers. But.... “But if you were really looking out for me....if you’d really cared about me at all....you wouldn’t have made me feel like complete fucking shit for years, about Stiles.”

 

Startled, Jackson straightens himself up. “What? No! I wasn’t---” He shakes his head, frustrated. “I never did that. It was Stiles---”

 

“I honestly want to know how you can possibly rationalize how telling me that Stiles is a freak at every possible moment, when you knew I had a crush on him, wouldn't make me feel like crap. I honestly want to know how your brain is working that out.” Danny rubs at his face, before catching Jackson's gaze. “ Having you tell me that the guy I liked was a complete fucking freak for years - that sucked. It made me feel like a freak for liking him.”

 

“I just---” Jackson gives him a helpless, hurt look. “You could do better---”

 

Danny doesn’t want to hear it. “You knew the whole time.  You knew that I liked Stiles, and you still made sure I knew what you thought about him.  It’s---it’s almost funny.  I’ve never had to worry about people judging me for being gay. I never had to worry about you judging me for being gay.  Instead - I had Stiles.  I was terrified you’d find out, and hate me Jackson!  You made me hate myself. So yeah, when I was afraid you’d find out that I liked him...that was awful. Finding out that you already knew? That---that killed me, Jackson. ” Danny takes a step back, but the space doesn’t help. “I don’t know if I can forgive you for that, yet.”

 

The final warning bell rings, shrill over the pulsing crowd of class-weary students. “At least let me give you a ride home,” Jackson offers, looking crushed.

 

Danny hesitates, but only for a moment. If he gets in Jackson’s car, they’ll fall right into their normal routine, and Danny will forgive him on accident. So, no. “You know what? I’m going to catch a ride with Stiles.”

 

“He doesn’t even live your way,” Jackson argues, but he looks like he regrets it, immediately.

 

“Yeah, but the diner does and I owe him dinner.” Danny grins, and it’s slick enough to be considered mean.  Jackson blanches, and it only serves to fuel Danny’s anger a little further.

 

**

He catches Stiles after school, fumbling with his keys beside his jeep. “Hey,” Danny calls, jerking back when Stiles flails in surprise.

 

“Jeezus---” Stiles blinks wildly, clutching his key ring to his chest. “Fuck- sorry, Danny. You uh---surprised me.”

 

“Yes, I noticed.” Danny can’t help but grin. Something about Jackson knowing - even if it came with the soul-crushing realization that Jackson had always known- makes Danny want to do something stupid like kiss Stiles on the mouth in the middle of the school parking lot apropos of nothing but his own mad desires. “Hey, do you want to grab something to eat?” He realizes a moment later that it’s 3:45 - too early for dinner. “Later I mean. We could hang out?” He pauses awkwardly, and blinks. “Do you want to hang out and grab dinner later? I mean...if you don’t have plans?” And Jesus, he’s rambling.

 

“I....have no plans? Nothing particularly concrete anyway?” Stiles is still holding his keys to his chest, looking for all the world like a distressed Victorian maiden clutching at her lace in offense. “I’m free? You want to hang out?”

 

“You want to not phrase everything as a question?” Danny forces a little laugh out, something to diffuse the effervescent air hashtag-awkward going on. “We can just do whatever you had planned.”

 

Stiles snorts, and his hands fall to his sides, keyring caught on a bent pinky. “Scott bailed on me to run---uh, errands with Isaac.” He shrugs, casual and indifferent, but Danny can still see the echos of bitterness there. “I was just gonna hang at home, to be honest.” He looks up through his own lashes, and Danny can’t really handle that kind of accidental-pretty, he really can’t. Stiles almost looks hopeful, like Danny isn’t practically throwing himself at him. “ It might be better with company.”

 

Danny remembers halfway out of the school parking lot, the DVD’s riding in his bag. “Oh hey, crap. Do you mind if we stop at the video store? I told my mom I’d return her stuff.” He’s the oldest currently at home, and both his parents work. Danny helps where he can. It’s not usually awkward, finagling Jackson into running lame errands with him like dropping of his mom's care packages at the post office, or picking up his sisters prescriptions at the drugstore. Jackson, Danny has always suspected, likes being included in such trivial family obligations. But Stiles is different. Danny doesn’t want Stiles to think he’s...well. Boring.

 

“Sure,” Stiles says brightly, like it’s no big thing. “That’s near the station. Is it cool if I drop in for a second? I need to bring my dad lunch.”

 

And just like that, Danny feels better about his family-obligations. Stiles probably understands them better than most.

 

They bring Stiles dad a salad first. Danny had meant to just stay in the car, but Stiles had been telling a story, and he hadn’t stopped telling the story as they’d pulled into the parking lot, a Wendy’s chicken-Caesar-salad riding back-seat. Danny could only assume that Stiles wanted him to come inside, and so he did, trailing awkwardly in his rambling-wake.

 

“Daddio,” Stiles called, opening the Sheriff’s door without so much as a knock.  Danny hovers in the doorway, as Stiles dumps the lunch onto the desk. “I come bearing offerings of roughage and fat-free dressing.”

 

“The food that food eats,” the Sheriff huffs. “Hello, Mr. Mahealani.”

 

“Sheriff,” Danny replies dutifully because his mother raised him with manners and authority figures still inspire abject amounts of fear in him.

 

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles huffs - an exact replica of his father's own exasperated sounds. “Just call him Danny. He’s hanging out tonight; Scott had a thing.”

 

“A thing,” Stiles’ dad replies, eyebrows raising minutely. “A concerning-thing? Should I be concerned?”

 

Casting Danny a quick and sharp glance, Stiles shakes his head. “I’m here, aren’t I?  No I’m pretty sure he and Isaac are going to see the new Marvel movie.”

 

“Don’t you and Scott usually go see those together?”

 

“Yes,” Stiles says, drawn and pointed. “But since the Allison Debacle of On and Off Again, I try to limit myself to only occasional third-wheeling, if you get my meaning.” He shakes his head at his dad, when it’s obvious that the Sheriff doesn’t get it. “I didn’t want to crash their date, dad.”

 

“Scott and Isaac are----” Pale blue eyes widen, and for a moment, Danny remembers that Stiles mother was an awful bigot. The Sheriff isn’t, though. Is he? “Oh. Oh! Well, that explains a lot. Hmm. I owe Melissa twenty bucks.”

 

“You bet whether Scott was into dudes or not?”

 

“No,” the Sheriff says, and this time his gaze drifts to Danny, a lingering, questionable thing. Danny’s seen it before, on every face of any parent of any friend he ever made, including Jackson’s.  Any parent who knew his not-so-secret, anyway. Danny flushes. “No, we bet on something else. Any-who kiddo, I should be home around ten. Don’t worry about dinner, I’ll pick something up.”

 

Stiles eyes narrow. “I’m sure you will.” He nudged Danny with his elbow. “Just remember, for every burger you eat, the more kale I’ll be forced to feed you.”

 

***

 

“You and your dad are pretty close.” They’re back in the Jeep, cruising down Main with generic pop-forties playing quietly through the crackling speakers. “It’s cool.”

 

“Just us, you know?” Stiles drums his fingers over the steering wheel - he has....long fingers. It’s not the first time Danny’s noticed. He’s been noticing things like that since before he really knew what it meant.  “I mean, I know it’s not the traditional parent-child relationship, but we have a good thing going. Things got rough for a bit - when I was working through stuff...but honestly, I couldn’t ask for a better dad.”

 

“Cool,” Danny says stupidly. “That’s cool.” Danny and his dad aren’t that close. It isn’t a gay thing, not at all. It’s just - they have different interests. Danny’s dad is into manly-things. Hunting, sports, burping and farting and watching competitive wrestling. Danny’s not actually a sports-guy. Lacrosse is cool, but it had always been Jackson's thing. Danny sort of just...tagged along. A bit like Stiles had, for Scott.  He’s a great dad - had always been around for every play, recital, and parent-teacher conference. He’d kissed boo-boos and checked math-homework. He’d helped Danny build a tree fort. He and Danny just...weren't close. No tragic back-story included.

 

“I have to go in,” Danny says, remembering-last minute his sister's request. “I promised my sister I’d pick up Shrek The Musical for her.”

 

Stiles gapes at him for a long moment, and Danny almost expects a joke.  Instead, Stiles laughs, the stupid bright thing that makes Danny feel weird and warm.  He’s clamoring out of the Jeep after Danny, still laughing as he asks,“they made a musical?”

 

***

 

Beacon Films Emporium is, against all possibility, even more retro than the random Blockbuster still clinging to relevance across the US.  There’s a Red Box outside CVS on the other side of town that Danny frequents, but for obscure and old choices, the BFE is the place to go.  Fifty percent of their stock is made up yellowing, clear VHS cases, their tapes labeled with strips of tape and black markers and no other discernible markers. A faded poster hangs behind the counter, cheerfully demanding that the patrons of Beacon Films Emporium be both kind and rewind.

New fixtures hold glossy, alphabetically-ordered DVD’s; an addition made by the owner's grandson. Just alphabetically ordered through, because the owner still held enough of a resenting technology grudge to refuse any type of genre-coding.   The whole place is shoved into a fifteen-by-fifteen square box of a room, with a closet-corner barred with saloon-doors that say (in more permanent marker) that patrons must be eighteen or older to enter. That people still rent porn is both baffling and disgusting to Danny, and so he tries not to dwell on it at all.

 

He’s pursuing the S-quadrant of the DVD racks, when he catches the ass-end of a conversation between Stiles and the Mrs. Markpably, the owner.  Her name tag reads Edna, but if you call her that, she’ll flick her cigarette cherry on you. She’s not known for her rationality, but her complete and utter insane devotion to her job instead.  Mr. Markpably takes movies very seriously. Old movies. Old...old...old movies.

 

“---Look, I’m not here to rent anything okay?”

 

“As if I’d let you!”

 

“I paid the fee,  Mrs.Markpably. Ten years ago.” It’s said calmly, but with a tone that tells Danny it’s been said before.

 

“Yes,” Mrs.Markpably replies, in a dry screech. “But your fine did not replace a one-of-a-kind digital masterpiece, Mr.Stilinski! Do you just think I can go out and purchase a classic like that? It’s no longer in production! They’re rare! Priceless! And you lost it!”

 

Danny watches over the shelves as Stiles turns an interesting shade of red, and clenches his teeth. “You can buy it on eBay for like six dollars! You could buy it a garage sale for a quarter!”

 

“The---the internet!” Mrs. Markpably reels back, almost as if she means to strike Stiles for his words. She’s lowers her hand into a fist, and slaps it firmly on the counter. “The internet cannot replace everything, Mr. Stilinski. I purchased that tape in 1987, first edition! And you lost it.”

 

“I was eight.” Stiles sucks in a breath. “Jesus Christ-- you have it on DVD!”

 

It’s the wrong thing to say, and Danny can barely suppress his laughter at the old-womans twisting, indignant face. “How---How dare you! You and my grandson and that DVD trash. The Princess Bride---it’s timeless! It’s---it’s not meant for DVD. To truly appreciate the artistry, it must be viewed in original format! You’ve deprived the people---”

 

“I WAS EIGHT!”

 

Danny knows it’s time to intervene, but on a whim he stops by the P-section and plucks a DVD from the shelf.  “Found it,” he says cheerfully, laying his cases on the counter as if he had somehow managed to not hear their shouting match in the cubicle of a store. “Hi, Mrs. Markpably. Just two today.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> up next - danny and stiles alone in the house for six hours.


	9. You might not be a pirate (please ignore the jolly rodger in my pants)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re going to sit on Stiles bed, next to each other for 90 minutes straight, watching an old man school a young Fred Savage in the ways of love. That’s...that’s cool. Danny can handle it. Danny can sit on the bed where Stiles probably does...Stuff. Jesus Christ. He’s cooler than this. He’s not this...this thirsty. It’s a word Jackson uses sometimes. He’s even heard Stiles use it. Danny hadn’t understood the meaning until this impossible moment. He just needs to get his shit together. It’s fine. he’s fine. “Um. Bathroom?”

“Are we really watching this?” Stiles asks, waving the clear DVD case wildly between them.  

 

Danny snatches it back, and grins. He’s always been a sucker for Mel Brooks movies, although Men In Tights reigns as his favorite.  “It’s a classic. Plus - you’ve rented it before.”

 

“Nine years ago! And that was the last time I watched it!  It’s---” He makes a face, scrunched up and mildly-offensive before sighing “Actually, you know what? Let’s watch it. It’s never the wrong time to watch Cary Elwes dressed up like a pirate.”

 

Danny blinks, fish-mouthing if only for a moment. Stiles misses it, already busy stealing the DVD back again.  It’s not the first time Stiles has made comments, but it’s the first time they’ve been uttered without sarcasm or subtly. “I mean---” Danny tumbles over his own words. “I prefer him in tights.”

 

Stiles flashes him a quick and wicked smile, dimpled and bright and Danny realizes in that moment there is no TV in his bedroom. “Are we watching it down stairs---”

 

“Uh...Laptop?” He fumbles for a moment, as if only just realizing the logistics of it. “I mean, there is a DVD player downstairs, but Scott broke the remote like six months ago, and---”

 

“Laptops’ fine,” Danny cuts him off quickly, gaze flickering between the desk and the bed. “Really.”

 

“It’s not weird?” Stiles raises a brow, DVD suspended oddly in front of him between two long fingers. “I don’t want to make it weird.”

 

“It’s cool,” Danny says again, grinning with teeth. “No one in my family ever wants to watch Ginger Snaps 3, so I typically watch everything on my computer too.”

 

“Yeah, I tried to get my dad to watch Clerks 2 once, and he hasn’t trusted my movie-choices since.” Leaning over the mattress, Stiles reveals a charging cable plugged in beside the lamp. There’s a box of tissues on the bedside table. Danny’s brain makes some unhelpful connections, but he squashes them in lieu of reality. Reality being the bed. Stiles bed.

 

They’re going to sit on Stiles bed, next to each other for 90 minutes straight, watching an old man school a young Fred Savage in the ways of love. That’s...that’s cool. Danny can handle it. Danny can sit on the bed where Stiles probably does...Stuff. Jesus Christ. He’s cooler than this. He’s not this...this thirsty. It’s a word Jackson uses sometimes. He’s even heard Stiles use it. Danny hadn’t understood the meaning until this impossible moment. He just needs to get his shit together. It’s fine. he’s fine. “Um. Bathroom?”

 

“Through there,” Stiles points to the door on the left. “But please remember that I share a bathroom with no man and therefore have nobody to dictate my cleanliness but myself. So...no judgment.”

 

In Stiles bathroom, Danny does not notice the pile of laundry escaping its basket, or the smear of toothpaste on the mirror. Instead, he’s suspended in silence as he forces himself to suppress passing thoughts. Things like this is where Stiles gets naked and he probably jerks off in the shower. When he’s not jerking off in the bed that they’re both going to sit on together. It’s embarrassing, really.  It’s embarrassing how twisted and fluttery the idea of sitting next to Stiles on a soft surface makes him.  Mostly, he thinks, it’s because he’s letting himself. No more space between them - a desk, a lunch chair, three bus seats, four rows of lockers, or social hierarchy to divide them.  Still, he’s half-mass at just the thought of sitting on Stiles bed and it’s embarrassing.

 

“So are you a upright or belly watcher?” Stiles asks, as Danny ducks back into the room. He can’t help but let his gaze drift to Stiles stomach, before realizing what’s being asked.

 

“Uh...Belly.” He shrugs awkwardly, knees hitting the bed. It’s a full, plush with a thick blue comforter and drowning in pillows. The laptop is opened near the headboard, the opening menu screen churning tinny music from the onboard speakers. “I’m near sighted.”

 

“Which explains why you play goalie.”It’s said teasingly, as Stiles flops himself belly-down on the bed.  He hugs a pillow to his chest beneath his chin, and pats the space beside him with his elbow. “Make yourself comfortable dude. This was your idea.”

 

More boldly than he feels, Danny does. He drops down onto the small space of mattress hard. Stiles bounces and squawks, releasing the bulk of his pillow to steady himself. He elbows Danny in the ribs in retaliation, and just like that - things fall into place.

 

It’s...suspiciously simple.  Danny doesn’t want to generalize, but most guys would be more hesitant to get into bed with him like this; platonically, innocently.  Stiles holds no such qualms, doesn’t fidget when their shoulders bump, or when Danny shifts and wriggles into place beside him.  He just waits until Danny’s settled and presses play.  It could mean he’s just not a homophobe; which Danny knows he isn’t.  It could mean that Stiles is just especially enlightened; which...maybe. But it could mean....it could mean that he doesn’t mind Danny in his bed for other reasons.

 

But, down that road leads madness. Down that road leads....hope.

 

But it’s hard not to succumb to that kind of madness, tucked up tight on Stiles Stilinski’s bed, bodies touching shoulder to knee. He hasn’t been this close to Stiles since the seventh grade, and the memory of that day is enough to punch Danny in the gut with visceral reminder of how Stiles felt above him. The squirming, fluttering feeling in his stomach does not abate.

 

Madness, Danny thinks, as he watches out the corner of his eye, Stiles’ mouth form the words in perfect silence, “as you wish.”

 

***

 

“You mean, you guys laid up on his tiny bed and watched chick flicks, got dinner and he walked you to your door?” Jackson stares at him, his face flat and indiscernible. “That’s really fucking gay.”

 

Danny sighs. “Jackson....” He hasn’t really forgiven Jackson for the monumentally dick-holish things that he’s done of late, but he also isn’t the type to not present an offender with a chance to redeem themselves. Jacksons not doing so hot, but he’s also the only person who knows about Danny’s crush and he just needs to talk about it. He’s weak, okay? He’s weak and Jackson is readily available.

 

“No!” Jackson rushes to say. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. I meant...like. That sounds super gay. As in, are you sure it wasn’t a date?”

 

“Nooooo,” Danny draws out the word until his breath catches and then he sighs as deeply as he physically can. “I mean, I think I would know. And I would like to think that both parties should know. So even if I knew, Stiles would have had no way of knowing, as the word date was never mentioned. We were just hanging out.”

 

“Watching movies in his room, alone in his house. Getting dinner together, late dinner. And he walked you to your door.” Jackson raises both his blonde, manscaped brows. “That kind of sounds like a date, Danny.”

 

“He walked me to the door because it was late.” Danny had thought it was odd at the time, the way that Stiles had skittered out of the driver's seat to follow Danny up the fifteen foot sidewalk. But he’d insisted. “He said no one’s ever too old for the buddy system. What with all the animal attacks and stuff. Which I mean, nice thought, but it’s not like mountain lions are stalking the  suburban cul de sacs.”

 

“Right,” Jackson agrees, but the cadence in his voice catches Danny off guard. He sounds...weird. “Right, that’s stupid. But like, Stilinski would probably know more about the mountain lion attacks than most, because of his dad and junk, so you should probably listen to him.”

 

“To Stiles. You want me to listen to Stiles.” He squints at Jackson, and can feel the frown pulling at his face. “You don’t like Stiles.”

 

“Yeah but you do.” When Jackson shrugs, it’s hard and awkward. Impossibly forced. Danny appreciates the effort. “And I like you. He’s not...he’s not so bad.”

 

“You don’t have to lie.”

 

Sagging in his seat, Jackson releases a pained sigh. “God. Fuck. Thank you. No, he’s awful, and fucking annoying and he’s not even that attractive. You’re too cool for him, and he’ll never appreciate how much time you spend bleaching your teeth.” He shrugs again, and this time it’s all Jackson. “But whatever. You like him, and Lydia likes him and I’m out voted. I mean, he’s already in my fucking life.” He skirts Danny a quick look. “And you deserve to be happy. Even if that means being happy with Stilinski.”

 

Danny laughs; he can’t help it. “He’s not so bad, Jackson. He’s just...not like you. He’s...easy. Not like that! He’s easy to please. He’s not...You take the whole world so seriously. And that's fine. That’s you. But Stiles...he lets things roll of his shoulders. He goes with the flow.” He smiles, and knows its dopey. “He’s adaptable. He’s...open, I guess. Things don’t phase him. I’ve seen him get petted by seven drag queens, and that’s a big culture shock okay? But he just goes with it. He just kind of goes with everything. For as hyped up as he is, he’s...he’s very chill. And he’s strong! He takes hits, and keeps on going.” Danny doesn’t just mean LaCross, although he won’t elaborate out loud. He means Lydia’s rejection. Jacksons teasing. His mother's death. Whatever went down when he was ‘finding himself’ or whatever. Stiles is strong. He elbows Jackson. “And he’s honest about himself. He likes himself. You could take a few pages out of his book; learn to let things go. Lower your expectations and all that.”

 

“Spare me.” Jackson rolls his eyes. “But yeah...I’ll give you that much. Stilinski is...whatever. Strong.” The word falls out between them with disgust, but for whatever reason, Danny knows that Jackson means it. “But for real, enough waxing poetic. I’m trying to be a bro about this, but I’m not as adaptable as your boytoy.”

 

“Jesus Christ,” Danny flushes, sinking deep down in the chair.  He would crawl beneath the lunch tables, if he didn’t know they were covered in gum. “Don’t call him that, oh my god.”

 

 

 


	10. Shots fired! (sensory overload)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny feels irrationally angry. He’s got no right to be, but he feels strangely betrayed. Emotions are weird. His brain isn’t making any sense. He never believed the guy was his cousin. Not once. He already suspected that Stiles was fooling around with his Not-Cousin. So why is he so mad about it now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the rating change. Not so much for this chapter, though there is dick talk. 
> 
> Also, I posted this with only a very minimal read-through. I will go back and edit it better. but honestly I have had a trifecta of bad luck week, and your comments are a great pick me up. 
> 
> this chapter is a little weird. danny is a little weird. stiles is mostly confused. also, there is coach finstock.

Danny is distracted. Danny is - well...do you blame him? I mean, it’s hard not to be distracted. Hypnotized, really.  Apparently, Stiles is still discovering himself. In ink.

 

A matching pair, set in a shadowy black, lay pristine against his pale forearms, right above the point of his elbows.  They’re oddly familiar, but Danny can’t place where.

 

“New tattoos?”  And oh god, his voice sounds weird. Strangled. Squeaky. Danny takes a deep breath and hopes Stiles won’t notice.

 

Stiles, being the creation that he is, flails in the  confines of his own shirt. His arms are above his head, wriggling madly as he squirms himself into his tee.  And really, why are Danny and Stiles left alone in the locker rooms like this so much? He tries not to think that he might be subconsciously creating situations in where he can look at the little moles that sit low on Stiles belly, right above his hip bone. That would be...Yeah. Danny doesn’t want to think about that. At least, not right now. Later yes, when he’s alone, but not right now with Stiles standing right there, marked in new black ink.

 

Stiles blinks wildly at Danny, before lifting his arm up s he can look at his own goddamn elbow like he forgot they were there. “Oh-- Yeah. A buddy of mine designed them for me. He has the same one but he says I’m not allowed to call them friendship tattoos.”

 

“I didn’t know Scott had any more tattoos.” Other than the ridiculous black band around his bicep. Apparently it has deeper meaning, but Danny can’t fathom it.

 

Stiles looks amused, as he smoothes his shirt down. His mouth is half-curled into a wry looking smile, and his eyes are sparkling. “I do have other friends, Danny.”  

 

Danny’s mouth shuts with an audible click. “I know that. I mean obviously I know that. I just didn’t realize you had any other friends close enough to get matching tattoos with.”

 

They wryness of the curl in Stiles smile melts away, to something softer and Danny wants to look away because that is not a smile meant for him and it burns him jealously. “Yeah, it was kind of a spur of the moment thing. But I love them. Triskellions,” he adds, lifting his forearm to his chest, to show the tattoo again. “It’s a trifecta tattoo. They mean three things. Any three things. Past, present, future.” He casts Danny a quick look, through the curl of his dark lashes. “Alpha, beta, omega. Stuff like that.” He drops his arm and shrugs. “It’s--- you know. The whole finding myself thing. Derek’s helping. I had a lot of stuff to work out. We’re uh...we’ve gotten really close.” He flushes then, and Danny’s stomach drops. “I don’t think I’d have figured anything out without him.”

 

Oh no.  

 

Derek. The word rings odd in Danny’s head and he’s struck with gut-punch suddenness of where he’s seen the tattoo before. “Miguel,” he says, stupid and sputtered. “Your cousin Miguel had that tattoo!”

 

Stiles jerks hard enough to slap his hand against the locker. But to his credit, he doesn’t lie. “I--Uh. Yeah. Miguel. He um. You know. Not my cousin.” He gives Danny a sheepish look. “He’s uh. Derek Hale. The---”

 

“Convict.” Danny feels impossibly vindicated by the affirmation that he was right about the guy; he was neither Stiles cousin, nor was he not-a-convict.

 

“That implies he was convicted!” Stiles squawks. “All charges were dropped. He’s a really good guy, Danny. You’d like him.” He winks, smirking. “Actually, I’m fairly sure you already do like him.”

And okay, so maybe Danny had looked a little. That’s not important here. “So you have matching tattoos with Derek Hale who is not your cousin, but in fact an acquitted convict who I helped hack into private securities for?” Who wears your clothes and stalks around naked in your bedroom glaring at me. It makes a lot of sense, from this side of the fence.

 

“Um. Yes. Yeah. That...sounds about right.” He scratches nervously at the back of his neck, but all it serves to do is flash that damnable tattoo in Danny’s face again. “Don’t be mad, Danny. He really is innocent.”

 

But are you, Danny wants to ask. Because Stiles perpetual innocence has always been a point of uh...intrigue, to Danny. And it wasn’t like he didn’t quietly speculate as to whether or not Stiles was sleeping with his not-cousin Miguel before, but now. This? Danny feels irrationally angry. He’s got no right to be, but he feels strangely betrayed. Emotions are weird. HIs brain isn’t making any sense. He never believed the guy was his cousin. Not once. He already suspected that Stiles was fooling around with his Not-Cousin. So why is he so mad about it now?

 

“Yeah, whatever. You lied to get me to help a potential murderer.” That you now have matching tattoos with and probably sex.  And Oh My God, anyone else would probably be jealous of Stiles, because Derek Hale, aka Not Miguel, is hot like a thousand different stars. Because people don’t see Stiles the way Danny does. They don’t see the real him. The thought strikes him oddly, because it sounds like something Stiles would have said about Lydia, so very long ago.  There’s no escaping the thought though. Danny’s irrationally jealous of Derek Hale, because he probably got to touch Stiles dick first. And okay. He really just needs to walk away. Because Stiles isn’t gay. He’s not gay and he’s not having sex with Derek Hale, he's not cousin. It’s not a thing that is happening; Danny’s being weird. “I’ll talk to you later, Stiles.”

 

“Wait,” Stiles says, catching Danny by the arm. “I don’t know why you’re mad. Okay, no I know why you’re mad. But I don’t want you to be mad at me over this. Please. We’re friends now.”

 

“I’m not mad.” I’m stupid, Danny thinks. He can’t be friends with Stiles. He really can’t. “I mean why would I be mad that you had me hack a public, government-funded hospital so you could prove your boyfriend was innocent or something.” Jesus but why would he say that? Why?

 

Stiles makes a weird noise. A choked thing, that catches in his throat and he turns such a brilliant shade of red that Danny absently worries he might faint, with that much displacement of blood. “Derek’s not my boyfriend.” He blinks. “Derek’s straight. And like thirty years old or something. My dad’s the sheriff, Danny. Do you really think I could get away with dating a thirty year old accused murderer?”

 

“Oh.” Danny feels stupid. Like. Because he knew that. He’s always known that. Stiles is straight. His face feels hot, and he worries he’s blushing too. He hasn’t felt this embarrassed since - well. He’s not sure he’s ever felt this embarrassed. He’s usually more chill than this. What the hell is wrong with him? He’s acting like an irrational dick. He’s acting like Jackson. “Oh. Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. Sorry. I uh. Called you gay.”

 

Snorting, Stiles rolls his eyes. He lets his hand fall away from Danny’s arm slowly, and it makes his skin tingle and burn. “Please. There’s worse things you could accuse me of. At least that one would be sort of true.”

 

Oh God. No.

 

No. Nope. Because it’s one thing to be violently jealous of something that you only suspect and speculate on and say stupid things because you’re an irrational, stupid idiot. Danny can’t handle this kind of validation. Please, he thinks. Don’t say it. Not after the rollercoaster of his own emotions have left him an anemic puddle of shame and misplaced jealousy. He can handle having a crush on Straight Stiles. There’s no hope in it. It’s safe. Please don’t say it.

 

Stiles doesn’t listen to Danny’s internal pleas. He never does. Instead, he shrugs, and flashes another sparkling smile. “I mean, I’m bi.”

 

“I have to go,” Danny says.

 

***

 

Coach finds him thirty minutes later, sitting on a stack of copy paper in the supply closet next to the Econ room. “Mahealani...what are you doing in my closet? You came out years ago.”

 

Danny looks at him blankly, feeling all over like one big, exposed nerve. “I was trying to get away from Stiles and this was the nearest door.” He’d been too embarrassed to come back out. Danny’s not use to being embarrassed. He doesn’t know how to process this emotion. He’s suppose to be above it.

 

Coach Finstock reaches out to pat awkwardly at Danny’s shoulder. “We’ve all been there, son. I’ll uh...Leave you to it.”

  
  
  


 

 

 


	11. Hook, Line, and Inker (nope, not squeamish at all)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I...We’re friends now! Which is a big up from last year when you couldn’t bear my existence. So like, now that we’re cool, I don’t want you to think I dropped the Bi-Bomb because I’ve been pining for you since that day I fell on you in front of the bathrooms in Junior high and this is all like....a secret ploy to make you fall in love with me or at least put your hands in my pants.” He shrugs, like he’s not word-by-word devastating Danny’s entire existence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not beta'd, once again. Blugh.

Stiles corners him at the Beacon Township Public Library not even a week later, and really, Danny shouldn’t be surprised.  He doesn’t have his stack of out-of-place books with him, like the last time. Nor is he staring at Danny with empty, creepy eyes. Danny would almost rather he was. Stiles looks. Well. Sad.

 

“Hey Stiles.” Danny jams a book into place, upside down, and backwards.  His heart is bounding in his chest, and it’s stupid. It’s all so very stupid.

 

“So,” Stiles begins, as if to start their conversation in the middle, instead of the beginning. It’s very much like Stiles to only cut the bullshit out, when it suits him.  Personally, Danny would rather wade through at least a little social niceties, before delving into...stuff. But Stiles is not Danny, and that’s sort of the appeal. He’s leaning with an air of faux-casualty, but the frown on his face is distressing. “If I’d known it was going to make you uncomfortable, I wouldn’t have told you I was into dudes.”

 

The words, put together as they are to form a sentence, hit him strangely in the gut. “No, I...I mean---” He what? Would never expect anyone to hide themselves for the comfort of others? Danny certainly doesn’t. Well. At least, the being-gay thing, he doesn’t hide.

 

Stiles doesn’t let him finished. “I wasn’t like, hitting on you.” He gives Danny a painfully earnest look, and the light catches through his lashes casting distracting shadows across his pale cheeks. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I...We’re friends now! Which is a big up from last year when you couldn’t bear my existence. So like, now that we’re cool, I don’t want you to  think I dropped the Bi-Bomb because I’ve been pining for you since that day I fell on you in front of the bathrooms in Junior high and this is all like....a secret ploy to make you fall in love with me or at least put your hands in my pants.” He shrugs, like he’s not word-by-word devastating Danny’s entire existence. “I’m not stupid; I realize that’s not the way the world works.”

 

“It was the office.” Danny wants to fucking eat those words, as soon as they spill out, but they hang between them heavy and awkward instead.

 

Stiles blinks. “What?”

 

“It was...You fell on me in front of the office. Not the bathrooms.” He looks down, and sees his own hands shaking around a copy of A New You; Guide to Self Honesty. “I mean, yeah no. That was stupid of me. To think...that.” He doesn’t look up. There’s a lie on his face and Stiles would see it. Also, he might cry. And Danny? He’s an ugly cryer.“It was pretty obvious your mind was on Lydia.”

 

Stiles laughs. “Ah well. That was always a little Oedipus, I think.” He grins when Danny looks up, startled. “Come on. I mean, you saw that picture of my mother. Lydia is kind of a shoe-in for Doppleganger of the Year.” His grin goes soft, maybe a little embarrassed. “I mean, it’s probably not a coincidence that I decided I wanted to marry Lydia the same year my mother died.” He lets out a gusty sigh, and shrugs again. “I’m working through it. Knowing her as a real live person kind of helps. I think crushes probably work that way.  The fantasy is always way better than reality. The reality being that girls like Lydia eat guys like me or possibly skin them and make designer purses.”

 

Danny swallows, and it’s so loud. It’s so impossibly loud in the mandatory quiet of the library.  Because no. No, not all crushes work that way.

 

“Hey, but if you know, all those misconceptions are behind us, do you want to hang out?” He straightens his stance, and Danny is hit with the sudden realization that Stiles is taller than him. Broader, too.  How had he not noticed before? It’s distressing. “I uh. Well, I have this appointment in Beacon Heights. Since you seem interested in them, I thought maybe you’d want to go?”

 

“Interested in what?” Danny blinks, blind-sided, emotionally masticated, and sort of tired. “Wait, what?”

 

“Tattoos,” Stiles says. He rubs at his forearm. “You were staring at mine, I just figured maybe you were thinking of getting one or something. Thought you might want to come and watch.” He flashes Danny a quick smile, self-depreciating and familiar. “Plus, you know. I’m not great with needles. So, I need someone there to tell me not to be a complete baby about it and maybe hold my hand when I ignore said advice and cry a little.”

 

***

 

The swank little shop - tucked between an independent bagel place and a Kinko’s - is impossibly hipster.  Third Eye Anchor is painted in sweeping gold and black font across the dingy window.  Beneath it, in a different hue, reads Tattoo and Piercing, as if added as an afterthought.

 

Danny watches as Stiles is greeted like an old friend, by a wizened old woman with dark, kindly features. “Dječačić,” she calls, with a thick and winding accent. “Sty-ills. And you bring friend.”

 

“This is Danny,” Stiles explains, elbowing Danny in the side. “He’s here for moral support and hand holding. Also to drive me home. Danny, this is Sanjika. Uh. Nakikita .... niya ang walang....walang buwan. Buwan? Moon?”

 

“Ah,” the old woman says, like the garbled sputter Stiles spoke meant something. “Well yes. Well there is always the one who will miss every star in the sky, including the sun. I have prepared the traditional set. You come now, before ink begin to dry in pot. I mix special for you, with such things as provided by the albularyo.”

 

Stiles snorts at that, eyes bright with mischief. “I hope Doctor Deaton didn’t give you any trouble?”

 

“Were you not so pretty, I not care much for you.” She reaches up a wizened hand, and pats at Stiles face. “And you bring lovely friends. I not care much or the other. Yellow hair, too fair. This one squeamish?”

 

“You squeamish?” Stiles asks, turning to look at him. His eyes are still bright, and his smile is so impossibly real; just like the first one Danny ever saw, laying on the floor in front of the Junior High office. Danny lies.

 

“No, not really.”

***

 

“I thought you were getting a tattoo,” he wheezes out, as the wicked, curved looking needle breaks Stiles’ flesh with an audible pop. Danny feels it in his own bones, and winces. “This is like...torture. My Grandmother uses smaller needles to do cross stitch.”

 

“Picti is no torture,” Sanjika hisses at him, as she settles her palm over Stiles back, and hammers inked needle into his flesh with a long, curved piece of iron. “Now,Ta Moko do torture,but they is for w. Eh, Little Fire?”

 

“They use a line of needles carved from bone.” His jaw works, as he holds himself still against every tap of Sanjeka’s wicked needle. “They drag them through the skin, and rub the ink in.”  

 

Danny feels his stomach flip and flop inside him. “That’s...barbaric.”

 

“Maori were barbaric. They were warriors. Picti tooi.” Stiles is curled over a modern tattoo chair, his spine curved to form a perfect bow. His skin is pale, and marked with moles and freckles. Danny can see the lines of his ribs, faint beneath the stretch of his skin, and an impressive collection of taut muscles. “The tattooing was as much a part of the ritual, as the tattoos themselves.

 

Sanjika hummed, and tapped away. Rivets of red dripped down the valleys of Stiles spine, but she paid them no mind. “We could always go with branding. Like Aztecans”

 

Stiles flinches, if only a little. And really, Danny doesn’t blame him.“Picti are better than the Czarownica. They use hooked needles, laced with ink-soaked thread,” Stiles grits out, through clenched teeth. His fingers are curled into the same cushion his chin is rested on, and every inch of him is tense.  “Worked them in like they were weaving a freaking rug. They called them--Ow! Woman! That is my spine! They called them Fate Lines.”

 

“You got a tattoo like that?” Danny’s pretty sure he clenches so hard, his butthole retreats into his esophagus. “Charo-veen-cha?”

 

“Aahhh-Yeah. Ta Moko too. One for clarity, and one for courage.” Without warning, Stiles hand flies out to grip Danny’s. His fingers are longer, his palms broader, and his whole fist swallows Danny’s whole. “Don’t judge me I puke, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Danny says, and falls to solemnly from his lips. He drops to his knees, and catches Stiles eyes. He’s too pale, even in the terrible light, and his skin is coated with a cold sweat. “Hey, hey. Why are you even doing this?”

 

Looking at Danny through those damnable lashes of his, Stiles spoke quietly, as if his words might disturb something unmentioned. “And I saw another angel ascending from the rising of the sun, having the seal of the living God; and he cried out with a loud voice to the four angels to whom it was granted to harm the earth and the sea, saying, "Do not harm the earth or the sea or the trees until we have sealed the bond-servants of our God on their foreheads."

 

“Stiles,” Danny chokes, careful to keep as quiet. “Why are you quoting the Bible at me?”

 

“It’s---” Stiles grins, enough to flash the cuspid of his canine teeth. “These are heritage marks.  God marks. Not...not necessarily my heritage, or my gods. But they’re world marks. They’re meant to...to center. To anchor.” He leans his head back, just enough to catch Danny’s eye. “Does that make sense.”

 

“The Polynesian word for moon is mahina.” Even as he says it, Danny doesn’t know why. “We have the full moon Tiki symbol painted over the door of our house. Mahealani. Tiki were symbols for Polynesian demi-gods.”

 

“Well maybe I’ll get one of those next.” Stiles grins through another grimace, his hand tightening around Danny’s. “You know, in retrospect bringing you here because you're interested in tattoos was probably a bad idea. I swear, Sanjika knows how to use a tattooing machine.”

 

 “For warriors, we do tradition,” Sanjika mutters, sinking her needle deep into the knob of Stiles spine.

 

“Are you a warrior, Stiles?” Danny asks, on a laugh. But it feels wrong between them, something that should not be mocked.

 

Stiles doesn’t smile. He grimaces and holds Danny’s hand. “I’m something.”

***

 

“A....tree.” Danny tries not to stare at the planes of Stiles back, long and taught, and clean of blood and ink. The whole tattoo in it’s entirety is no bigger than a teacup saucer, placed right between the wings of Stiles shoulder blades, and so delicately lined, it looks like lace. “All that, for a tree?”

 

“I’m sorry, should I have gotten something more badass? Like a tiger riding a shark through a boiling lake of lava?”  Sanjika doesn’t bandage Stiles tattoo up, but instead lets him pull his shirt on right over it, before disappearing into a double door with no obvious intent on returning. This pings all sorts of health-and-hygiene violations in Danny’s mind, but here in the backroom of a dingy, dated tattoo shop, he’s an outsider and he suspects his voice means less. “For your information, Danno,” Stiles turns to explain. “It’s the Druid Tree of Life. The Tree of All Things. Known probably most closely in Christianity as the Tree of Eden or something. It’s....the Mother Tree.”

 

“Some of the roots are trisk....trisk-whatevers.  You and Derek must be close if you need that many matching tattoos.”

 

Stiles looks surprised. “Triskelions? Really? How many?”

 

Danny thinks on it. “Eight?”

 

At that, Stiles smile widens, branching out across his face. “Room for more?”

 

“I...guess?” Danny’s not sure why it matters. “You’re going to add more?” He can’t fathom why it would be necessary. Are ten trillions not enough? Derek Fucking Hale only has one.

 

“I wouldn’t mind adding a few more roots.” He grabs Danny by the chin, shakes him gently. “Roots are the things that keep us grounded, Danny-Boy. You can never have to many.”

 

“Don’t,” Danny grab Stiles wrist, and pulls himself free. His face feels hot where Stiles touched. “Don’t call me that? You called me that when you were being all weird.”

 

“Danny-bo--- Oh. Uh. Sorry.” Stiles shoves his hand into his pocket. “Can I call you Daniel?”

 

For no explainable reason at all, Danny blushes. “No.”

 

 

 

 

  
  



	12. Jealousy is a green eyed monster; Derek Hale is too (sometimes, wtf color are his eyes?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s good that he’s turned. That he can’t see Danny’s face. Because it’s not often that Danny gets too look like this. It’s not like at the tattoo shop, when Danny was doing his best to ignore the little rivers of blood. They’re dry now, in rusty, flaking lines on his back. But the tattoo is clean, lined not in black, but a dark, earthy brown. It matches Stiles moles perfectly, so perfectly that Danny would categorize it as unfair. He wants to touch it; he doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very short chapter (only 1200 words, sorry!) but I figured it was going to be the only thing I'd get to write until after Thanksgiving. So, enjoy!

Danny drives them home in the Jeep, with Stiles curled forward in the passenger seat.  Dark wells of red have bleed through the thin layer of his gray cotton shirt, but he assures Danny, there’s no real worry.  “The ink she uses, it’s not like the stuff they make now.  It’s organic; it has its own disinfectants.”

 

“Poison ivy is organic, but I don’t rub it all over my body to keep fresh,” Danny replies sharply, but it’s hard not to trust those amber eyes. “Fine, fine. You obviously know what you’re doing. How many tattoos do you even have?” And how has Danny not seen them?

 

“Uh. Well, there’s the two triskelions, the two on above my hips, and this one. And the ones on my forearms.” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal to have eleven tattoos when you’re just barely eighteen. And Jesus, this is California, it’s not a big deal. But it’s just so...so un-Stiles.

 

But then, maybe Danny just doesn’t know Stiles as well as he thinks he does.

 

“Are you gonna get more?”

 

“Yes,” comes Stiles reply, quick and without hesitance. “I have them mapped out. But I can only--- Well. I have to do them a certain way.” He frowns, like he isn’t quite sure how to explain it to Danny. Like it’s something Danny can’t, or won’t understand. “They all...mean different things. I have to...to...earn them. Part of the whole heritage thing.”

 

“Warrior marks,” Danny mutters, mostly to the steering wheel. _Are you a warrior_ , Stiles? “Why these marks? Why a triskelion? Why...Why a tree?”

 

“Three is a powerful number,” Stiles explains, and he’s explained before. “It’s in all sorts of mythology, and...and religion. But then, most mythology was religion once, right? The triskelion represents being...being a part of something bigger than yourself. Part of the past, the present, the future. The mother, the father, the child. Life, death, and the other-world. The Triskelion represents the stages of life, kind of.  And the tree? It’s the tree of life, Danny. Crann Bethadh - that’s what the Celts called it, but it pops up in other lore. I like the Druid ideology best on it though. The Tree of Life; it sits at the center of all things. It’s a nexus - a source of power. And I mean - trees, earth in general....it’s rebirth.”

 

“Rebirth?”

 

“Literal rebirth; being born again. Or you know, finding yourself. Finding your center. The Tree of life is the center of all things. The circle around it, that represents Mother Earth. Mother Earth brings protection. The circle is...is the womb, I guess.” Stiles eyes are for the road, and Danny does his best to do the same, and listen. Stiles voice has lost it’s rambling quality, taken on an authoritative tone that makes Danny’s heart stick in his throat, for reasons he can’t decipher. “ And the Tree is life. Every branch, every leaf; they’re parts of myself. My center; my balance and harmony. But balance and harmony are brought on by outside forces. The roots of the tree: those are my triskelions. My...bigger picture. The things in my life that balance me. I can’t be centered without them. I can’t be strong, and I can’t find harmony. Scott, Lydia, my dad, the pack; my family. Does that makes sense?”

 

 _It’s beautiful_ , Danny thinks. But he might be bias. He doesn’t say this. “I...Yes. Yeah. You’ve obviously put a lot of thought into it.”

 

Stiles snorts. “Well it was this or a butterfly tramp stamp, but that’s a little 90’s basic-bitch, don’t you think?”

 

***

 

Danny follows Stiles into his house; he doesn’t have anywhere (better) to be. “You should let me look at it.”

 

“It’s fine,” Stiles insists, rolling his shoulders and wincing.

 

“I’m sure it is, but it would make me feel better to see it, after watching you get a big rusty nail beat into your flesh.” He doesn’t put his hand on his hip, like he would to Jackson, like his mother does to him. It’s a close thing though.

 

“It wasn’t ---” Stiles sighs, and pulls his shirt off with more ease than he ever manages in the locker rooms (Not that Danny’s looking; not that Danny means to look). It flutters, innocuous, to the floor, and Stiles turns. “Happy?”

 

It’s good that he’s turned. That he can’t see Danny’s face. Because it’s not often that Danny gets too look like this.  It’s not like at the tattoo shop, when Danny was doing his best to ignore the little rivers of blood.  They’re dry now, in rusty, flaking lines on his back. But the tattoo is clean, lined not in black, but a dark, earthy brown.  It matches Stiles moles perfectly, so perfectly that Danny would categorize it as unfair. He wants to touch it; he doesn’t.

 

“It looks...it looks okay. Little bloody, but uh....It’s not scabbing up, like I expected?” It doesn’t look like any fresh tattoos Danny’s seen (not that there’s been many).  It looks...healthy.

 

“It’s the ink,” Stiles explains shortly. He opens his mouth, maybe to say more, when his phone goes off. “Ah - hold up. I gotta grab that.” And then he’s turning, and whirling, and scrambling to grab his phone up off the desk. “Hey---yeah no, I just got back. Danny’s with me. No don’t---”

 

 _Don’t_ , Danny thinks, _climb through my bedroom window_. But Derek Hale seems to have no qualms, because he’s doing just that with a practiced ease that speaks of familiarity. “Let me see it,” he demands, apropos of real greeting. “Stiles.”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes and grins at Danny, that same what-can-you-do that he use to flash, in junior high. It makes Danny’s gut clench. “There you go, big guy.” He turns, presenting the tattoo to Derek Hale.

 

Who touches it.

 

Lays his whole palm on it, like it might not hurt Stiles, like he has the fucking right. Touches Stiles, like Danny couldn’t bring himself too.

 

It doesn’t. Hurt Stiles that is. Stiles whimpers, but it’s so very obviously a good sound. It’s such a good goddamn sound, that Danny sort of wants to sit down, and maybe cross his legs. Embarrassing. Derek Hale shoots him a look over Stiles shoulder, the thick line of his brown pulled into a durrow, and Danny wonders what the guy can see on his face. He looks away.

 

“It’s beautiful,” Derek Hale says, stealing unsaid words from Danny’s mouth. “The roots....”

 

“Sanjika took some creative license,” Stiles turns, looking at Derek Hale over his shoulder, and their faces are close. Close enough to kiss.

 

“I should go.” The body has ways of protecting itself, Danny thinks. That’s why his mouth is speaking without his permission. “I should--- I should go.”

 

“-----we drove here in my jeep?”

 

Danny knows this, objectively. He doesn’t care. He can cut through the woods and be home in fifteen minutes. He can be anywhere that isn’t in that room with Derek Hale touching Stiles Stilinski, and anywhere other than that is good.

 

He’s only just shut the front door behind him, when Derek Hale appears out of fucking nowhere, near the porch rail. The guy must have jumped from the second story window and sprinted around the fucking house. Why, Danny can’t fathom.  Probably to punch him in the face or eat him or yell at him for liking Stiles, not that he could possibly know that, probably, right?

 

“I’ll drive you home,” Derek Hale offers. “It’s not really safe to be walking after dark. Especially through the woods. You live in Maple, right?”

 

“Right,” Danny wants to know why Derek Hale knows that.

 

Derek Hale tips his head toward his aggressive black camaro. “Get in.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha cliff hanger.


	13. The only two in this car is us.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey dude,” Stiles greets, as Danny tosses his bag into the back seat. “Hope you don’t mind. It makes more sense for me to pick you up, since you’re on my way to school and Jackson lives the other way.” 
> 
> “I don’t mind.” It’s strange, to think that Jackson and Stiles must have spoken on the subject, hashed out the details, and settled on a plan that resulted in Stiles picking him up for school. Strange and...and unsettling. “Jackson asked you?” 
> 
> “Ah....” Stiles flushes, splotchy red and adorable. “No, I offered. I mean...You’re on the way. So. It makes sense.” 
> 
> “Yeah,” Danny blinks, riveted by the crush of color on Stiles cheeks. “You said.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look guys! I snuck in another chapter before the hols, instead of doing any of the reports I could have been writing. 
> 
> Hope you like it. I do.

 

 

“I’ll drive you home,” Derek Hale offers. “It’s not really safe to be walking after dark. Especially through the woods. You live in Maple, right?”

 

“Right,” Danny wants to know why Derek Hale knows that.

 

Derek Hale tips his head toward his aggressive black camaro. “Get in.”

 

Danny hesitates, hands frozen at his side as he stares at the glossy black paint. “I’d rather not.”

The look that Derek Hale is as flat as his voice. “Either you get in or I put you in the trunk.”

 

Danny sputters, wide-eyed and surprised. “That’s kidnapping! We’re in the Sheriff’s yard.”

 

Derek Hale smiles, a slow curling smirk that makes Danny want to bolt like a frightened rabbit. “Do you really think kidnapping is worst thing I’ve ever done?”

 

Danny reaches for the door handle. “That doesn’t actually instill me with a lot of confidence.”

 

“You sound like Stiles.” He fishes his keys from the pocket of his too-tight jeans, and pushes the button to pop the trunk. “Your choice, Mahealani, but either way, you’re getting in the car.”

Danny gets in the passenger seat, and Derek Hale shuts the trunk.

 

The interior smells like....like peroxide, actually. Oddly. The leather seats are more worn than the new exterior would promise. The car is not as well kept as Jackson's immaculate porsche. There’s leaves and dirt embedded in the floor matts, and tears in the upholstery. Danny picks absently at a hole in the seat beneath him, as Derek fires up the engine.

 

“You like Stiles.”

 

“No.” It’s reflex. Like ducking when things are thrown at you, or when your dentist's asks if you’ve forgotten to floss for the last six months.

 

That same slick smile curls at the left corner of Derek Hale’s mouth. “Lie.”

 

And for reasons Danny can’t fathom- there is just so much Danny can’t fathom he’s filled with the sudden and inexplicable desire to explain. “I mean...of course I like him. We’re friends.”

 

“Not quite a lie,” Derek accedes. The air around them seems to crackle with silent tension. Danny can’t name it, but it makes the hairs on his neck stand at attention. It makes his heart beat faster. Derek Hale is...is sort of terrifying, acquitted convictions aside. “But that’s not what I asked. You were jealous. When I touched him, you were jealous. I could smell it on you.”

 

“That’s a really disconcerting thing to say,” Danny stutters out, fingers curling over the door handle. They’re going fifteen through a neighborhood; he could jump.

 

Even as he thinks it, the locks drop with a loud, and echoing click. “I’ve let you dance on the outskirts for a while, kid.” They roll to a stop at a four way intersection, and Derek Hale turns to look at him, eyes narrowed. “You were just a sidekick to a sidekick then, and your willful ignorance was fine. Helpful, even.  But if you’re putting yourself in Stiles pocket? You can’t get away with not knowing forever. Not with Stiles. It won’t work.”

 

Danny bypasses the instinctual indignant at being called a sidekick, in favor of the bigger fish. “Not knowing what?”

 

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” He flexes his fingers on the steering wheel, and it creaks in protest. “So if you really want to go there with Stiles, you’re gonna have to put on your big-boy pants and buck the fuck up.  I can’t say pulling you into the fold is my favorite idea, but the pack seems fond of you and you’ve proven helpful in the past.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Danny looks out the window; he can see the turn off for his neighborhood. His palms are sweaty, where they rest on his knees.

 

“Lie,” Derek Hale says, and the asshole has the audacity to laugh at Danny. “You’re a smart kid. You might not know the specifics, but you know exactly what I’m talking about, and when you’re ready to ask, I’ll tell you. But once you know, you can never forget.”

 

“That’s why I haven’t asked.” It falls from Danny’s mouth in a gust of admission and shame.

 

“I know.” The car lurches to a stop outside of Danny’s house. He hadn’t given any directions. Apparently, they weren't needed.

 

His heart is lodged firmly in his throat, as he pushes the door. “You and Stiles...You’re not....You don’t want....”

 

“I’ve done a lot of bad things kid, but jail bait isn’t one of them.” His eyes catch Danny’s, and there’s an admission there that neither will voice. Derek didn’t say no. He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no; Danny thinks that probably means something. Another thing, he can’t understand. Derek looks away, and his knuckles are white on the steering wheel. “Think about what I said.”

 

Danny does.

 

***

The next morning, there isn’t a black porsche in his driveway, but a busted up blue jeep. Stiles honks the horn, and waves at him when he peeks through the kitchen window.

 

“Who’s that?” His mother asks, hoisting his sister up on his hip. She’s too big for it, but that doesn’t stop his mother.

 

“Stiles.” Danny doesn’t think anything of it, as he steals an apple out of the bowl on the table.

“Oof--mom!” His sister squeals, and Danny turns to see her scrambling up from the floor where his mother apparently dropped her.

 

“Stiles,” she repeats, and her eyes are wide. “Stiles like....like The Stiles? Is that who you’ve been spending all your time with? Stiles?”

 

“The Stiles---What are you---” Oh. Oh God, no. His mother can’t possibly remember that, can she? How horrifying. “Mom, no.”

 

“Is it? Is he your boyfriend?”

 

“Yes,” Danny wheezes out, wishing for all the world that the floor would swallow him whole and save him from the moment where his mother remembers his first wet dream like it was his first step or word. Ugh. “Yes it’s that Stiles. No, he’s not my boyfriend. Mom please. It’s not even like that.”

 

“But--But! He was your first---”

 

Danny’s not sure how she’s going to finish that sentence, but he’s sure he doesn’t want her too. “No buts....just. None at all. Not his. Not mine. None.” Danny squeezes past her, cheeks bright. “I love you, but I’m not talking about it!”

 

“I don’t believe you! I want to meet him!”

 

***

 

“Hey dude,” Stiles greets, as Danny tosses his bag into the back seat. “Hope you don’t mind. It makes more sense for me to pick you up, since you’re on my way to school and Jackson lives the other way.”

 

“I don’t mind.” It’s strange, to think that Jackson and Stiles must have spoken on the subject, hashed out the details, and settled on a plan that resulted in Stiles picking him up for school. Strange and...and unsettling. “Jackson asked you?”

 

“Ah....” Stiles flushes, splotchy red and adorable. “No, I offered. I mean...You’re on the way. So. It makes sense.”

 

“Yeah,” Danny blinks, riveted by the crush of color on Stiles cheeks. “You said.”

 

“Great, so we agree!” He grins, bright and wide against his red cheeks, and Danny wants so badly for that blush to be for him. He needs it like breathing. “So uh. Derek. Gave you a ride home last night?”

 

“Yeah.” A pause, long enough to bore the crickets. “He’s...intense.”

 

“Eh, he’s a fucking puppy if you know how to pet him right.” Stiles snorts, and then coughs on his own words. “Oh god, that came out wrong. I don’t pet Derek. No one pets Derek. Jesus.”

 

“I think he has a crush on you,” Danny says, because his mouth is awful and his brain hates him. He’s horrified at his own boldness, but not nearly as much as Stiles apparently is.

 

Stiles nearly break checks them into oblivion. “He does not.”

 

“Hey,” Danny says, leaning back in the seat. He doesn’t feel nearly as chill as he probably looks. “Would I lie to you?”

 

“Derek Hale does not have a crush on me.” Stiles stares at him flatly, until the car behind them honks, forcing them to cross the intersection. “Half the time, he wants to push me out the window.”

 

He doesn’t know why he pushes. Maybe cause he likes the way Stiles looks when he’s flustered. “And the other half, he probably wants to push you down and fu---”

 

“Woah, okay now. That’s enough.” Stiles laughs, high and hysterical. “Derek Hale has a crush on me. Haha, very funny. Jokes over.”

 

I wasn’t joking, Danny wants to say. “Whatever man. Believe what you want.”

 

“Danny,” Stiles says, and the words tumble quietly against his smile. “People like that - or well, any people. Anyone. People don’t crush on guys like me.”

 

Danny can’t help but feel appalled at the blase acceptance in Stiles voice. “What the hell does that mean?”

 

Stiles shrugs, as he pulls into the school parking lot. “It means I’m a two surrounded by ten.”

 

“You’re not a two.”

 

“You’re my friend, you’re bias.” He grins at Danny, bright and white and Danny just wants to fucking kiss it. “You’re also a goddamn ten, so....what the hell do you know?”

 

“Yeah well - my mom thinks we’re dating!”

 

Stiles blinks owlishly at that, but his smile splits his face. “Wow. I don’t know whether to feel bad that your mom thinks you're slumming it, or flattered she thinks I can pull someone as hot as you.”

 

Danny’s--- well. He’s horrified at the crap spilling out of Stiles mouth, but he also kind of gets it. He did this to Stiles. He and Lydia and Jackson and anyone who laughed at him, or teased him, or snubbed him. This is the byproduct of Danny’s constructed indifference. He wants to make it right. He wants to prove Stiles wrong. And he knows exactly how. He just has to balls up and do it.

 

“Do you want to go out with me tonight?” Danny asks, palms sweating against his knees, where he’s holding them in a death-grip. “See a movie? We could grab dinner. My treat.”

 

Stiles blinks at him. He doesn’t look as delighted as Danny was hoping for, but then the date is rather left field. Danny will take what he can get, if it gets that self-hating smile of Stiles face. “Um. Sure. Just let me---” Stiles fumbles with his phone, tapping out a quick message. “When should the pa-- the guys meet us?”

 

It’s Danny’s turn to blink owlishly. “The guys?”

 

“And girls. Saying guys and girls is kind of weird though, so guys is figurative, not literal. Our friends.  For movie night? I told them we should all hang.”

 

No we certainly should not, Danny thinks, feeling wild and righteous and irritated all at once. “Movie night,” he echos. “Right.”

 

Stiles smiles. Danny wants to kiss his stupid face. “It’ll be fun. Good idea, Danny.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahahaha HA


	14. Butter Pecan't Control My Feelings.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny would have liked to buy Stiles ticket. It was the plan, after all. But there’s no way to go about it, without drawing attention to the fact. And as much as he’d like for Stiles to have that little light-bulb moment, he’d rather it not happen with keen-eyed witnesses. So instead, he settles for buying a large bucket of popcorn, and a box of twizzlers (Danny doesn’t like twizzlers; Stiles does). “We can share.” He pauses, embarrassed at his own existence. “It’s cheaper.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS. GUYS. 
> 
>  
> 
> GUYS.

 

 

 

The _guys_ , it would turn out, consist of Jackson, Lydia, Erica, and Boyd. “No Scott and Isaac?”

 

“Scott had to work; Isaac’s hanging with Derek.” Stiles shrugs. “So I guess we’re playing fifth and sixth wheel tonight.”

 

Danny would have liked to buy Stiles ticket. It was the plan, after all. But there’s no way to go about it, without drawing attention to the fact. And as much as he’d like for Stiles to have that little light-bulb moment, he’d rather it not happen with keen-eyed witnesses.  So instead, he settles for buying a large bucket of popcorn, and a box of twizzlers (Danny doesn’t like twizzlers; Stiles does). “We can share.” He pauses, embarrassed at his own existence. “It’s cheaper.”

 

“Okay,” Stiles agrees. “What size drink do you want?”

 

Danny flounders at that.“You don’t have to get me a drink.”

 

“‘Course I do.”

 

“You could share that too,” the girl working the counter offers, a bit more aggressively than is really required. “It’s cheaper,” she adds flatly, slamming a large up on the counter before they can even reply. “What’ll it be?”

 

“Um.” Stiles blinks. He scrunches up his nose at Danny, even as he fishes his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. “You’re not going to insist we drink diet coke are you?”

 

“What? No. Why?”

 

Stiles shrugs. “Well you were always drinking it at at lunch.”

 

Danny would like to dwell on what it means that Stiles had been looking at him, during lunch. But the counter girl won't be having any of that. “Congratulations on your Dr.Pepper,” the girl announces, though they never did tell her what they wanted. “That’ll be six-fifty. Now go away, you’re holding up the line.”

 

That’s the story as to how Danny ends up with his mouth around Stiles’ chewed-on straw, and some seriously seventh-grade thoughts. _His mouth has been on this_ , Danny thinks, taking a quiet drink.  Stiles had pushed up the armrest that separated their seats, and settled the popcorn bucket on their thighs, bridging the gap.  Danny wonders if their hands will touch if they reach at the same time, and simultaneously hopes that they do, and don’t.

 

Two rows in front of them, is Jackson and Lydia. Danny can feel the judgmental, burning eyes of his best friend, even though Jax is facing the screen. There will be mocking later, and probably disgusted scoffing but Danny’s just accepted that, as Jackson has accepted Danny’s ill-conceived crush. Danny had flat-out refused to sit next to them; Lydia is a _movie-talker_. A horrible, horrible movie talker, who likes to spend the greater bulk of any movie pointing out plot holes and bad science. Erica and Boyd are four rows forward, already aggressively making out. They haven’t even made it past the previews, and half of Boyde is already lost in the sea of Erica’s pale curls.

 

It’s a bad movie.  Danny doesn’t have to be able to hear Lydia’s sharp remarks, to know that she’s not impressed with the science. She picked the movie, and he’d bet a dollar that she knew going in, it would be terrible. It’s about aliens, but pretty, humanesque ones. Danny’s not sure, but he thinks some of the aliens might be like...eating humans, or harvesting their organs for eternal youth. Mila Kunis wears plaid. Channing Tatum is part golden retriever. Sean Bean is part bee. It’s a thing that’s happening.

 

He chances a look at Stiles, finds him watching Lydia and Jackson in lue of the movie, with a sad little curl to the smile on his face. Something ferocious and hot clenches in Danny’s face. “Over your crush, eh?” He hopes he doesn’t sound as bitter as he feels. He doubts it.

 

Stiles startles, turning sharply to look at Danny. “What? Oh. No - no it’s not that. Lydia and I are friends.” His smile is genuine then, when he speaks about her, and Danny believes him because he wants too. “I don’t know. Just. Jackson really loves her.”

 

Danny looks down, to see Jackson looking at Lydia as she bitches about the UnScience, and he can see what Stiles means. It’s in Jackson's’ eyes, and the lines around his mouth; smile lines. He _does_ love Lydia. “Yeah.”

 

“Kind of makes a guy jealous. Not of Jackson, not like you think.” He snorts softly, blowing bubbles in their drink. “Of Lydia, I guess. I mean, who wouldn’t want someone to look at them, the way Jackson looks at her?” Stiles eyes stray back to the scene - Mila Kunis is orchestrating a bee army - and Danny just looks at Stiles.

 

***

 

Nobody is particularly hungry after the movie, but Stiles and Erica insist they need ice cream from Blue Moonies, off the boardwalk. Lydia insists she doesn’t want any, but Danny knows she’ll eat half of Jackson's. It’s why Jax buys an triple scoop in a bowl, and asks for two spoons.  Danny cuts them all in line, and tells the cashier to ring him up for both, before Stiles can even protest.

 

They walk the boardwalk with their ice cream, and it’s a lot like their mini-golf night, except...not. Stiles is lighter, that much Danny can feel. It’s still heavy with the silent, screaming couples vibe, and Danny wants so badly to be a part of that, for Stiles to get it. But, Danny has to concede, maybe Stiles doesn’t get it because he’s just not into Danny. He doesn’t see him _that_ way.

 

He's so preoccupied by his own maudlin thoughts, he doesn’t see the lip in the boards. He trips, sending his ice cream flying. It hits the deck with a squelching, wet sound and all Danny can do is stare at it.

 

There’s a shutter and a click, and before he can ask which asshole took his picture, Stiles is there. “Oh my god. You look so _sad_.” He tucks his phone into his pocket and holds out his cone. “Here, here. We can share.”

 

Feeling wild, and wired and weird, Danny doesn’t take the cone. Instead, he leans over and _bites_ it. It’s Butter Pecan, because Stiles is apparently secretly a thousand years old or something. “You monster!” Stiles cries, laughing delightedly. He spins the cone, licking the place where Danny’s teeth had dragged, smooth again but it’s no good; Danny stole about half of it. “Seriously, how can I forgive you this sweet sacrosanctness.

 

“You can start by never using that word in a sentence again. You wanna ditch them?” He asks, tilting his head to the couples-parade going on in front of them. Danny can’t handle his own jealousy right now. He wants to hold Stiles ice cream sticky hand, dammit. And Stiles is just not into him.

 

Dropping his cone, and wiping stick palm-prints on the front of his jeans, Stiles grins. “Sure.”

 

He doesn’t take Danny home, though they’re hedging the line of their curfew. No, he pulls the Jeep along a trail, twenty minutes through the woods, and Danny thinks it would be a great place to make out (but Stiles isn’t into him). “Where are we going?” He asks, and Stiles just laughs.

 

“You’ll see. It’s cool, I promise.” He parks the Jeep, and hops out, waiting for Danny to do the same.

 

The woods are creepy, with nothing but blue shafts of moonlight dripping through the leaves to lead their way. Things skitter and titter in the underbrush. And owl hoots over head, it's feathers rustling loud in the quiet of the trees. “Should we be out here? Don’t people die out here?”

 

“Not recently,” Stiles says, lambently. And then he does the craziest thing.

 

 _He grabs Danny’s hand_. It makes his heart stutter in his chest, even though Stiles only means to pull him along. Stiles hands are big. The cup of his long fingers easily swallow Danny’s whole. “C’mon.”

 

When Stiles finally stops, it's at a ...a tree. Or it _was_ a tree. Thick enough to lay across, the tree stump fills the center of the small clearing. “Come on,” Stile says again, pulling him to the flat-cut expanse. “Or we’ll miss the start. Lay down.”

 

Startled by the command, Danny accidentally pulls his hand away and regrets it immediately. _Stupid_ , he thinks. So _stupid_. Danny is an embarrassment. A desperate, teenage embarrassment. “What?”

 

Stiles drops down on the stump, and stretches himself across. “Lay down with me. It’ll be worth it, I promise.”

 

Danny believes that, so he does. He stretches out on the tree stump beside Stiles, and stares up at the gaping hole its absences has left in the canopy above.  A rounded patch of starry sky looks down at them, and then it goes suddenly and terribly  _pink_.

 

“ _Aurora borealis_ ,” Stiles tells him, happily wiggling beside him. They’re touching; the tree is big, but it’s not big enough that they’re not touching. Danny can feel the heat of him, a long line of burning presence at his side.

 

 He watches the pink shift to purple, and blue and green, before he turns to look at Stiles. He has his eyes closed, and the color plays off his pale skin like sun through stained glass. Danny loves him in that moment, so deeply that it _hurts_. It seems impossible that he can love Stiles. It was only ever a crush. And it's true that he feels crushed by it. He feels breathless and stupid and warm and weird and other things he can't decipher with the English language.  _Hokeo,_ he thinks. That's what his Nona would call it. A secret love. 

 

He doesn’t look away in time, so when Stiles eyes pop open, he’s caught. “What are you looking at me for?” He asks Danny, brow pulling together to form a confused little furrow. “I didn’t drag you out into murder country to stare at all this.” He waves a finger at his face. 

 

“Sorry.” It comes out too soft, to quiet in the space between them. Danny clears is throat. “Uh. Sorry.”

 

“It’s okay,” Stiles tells him, awkward and confused, because he doesn’t know what Danny’s apologizing for. _Danny_ doesn’t even fucking know what he’s apologizing for, except maybe for his existence in that moment. “So uh. I’m going....I’m going to do something. Um. Something possibly weird. Feel free to punch me if you’re not into it! Like, consider this a free-card for punching, but um...”

 

And then Stiles _does the craziest thing._

He holds Danny’s hand.

 

He lets out a gusty breath when Danny doesn't pull away, or God - punch him in the face.  Like Danny would. Jesus. “Some people - cultures - believe the Northern Lights are departed spirits,” he tells Danny, eyes locked to the rainbow patch of sky above. Their palms are sweaty, pressed together. It's the culmination of years of pent-up pining, and Danny is paralyzed by the sweetness in it. He's so weird. They're both so weird.  “The Inuit, some other Natives, Saami, some places in Norway I think. Swedish people in general.  In Finland it was called uh...” He scrunches his nose in thought, and Danny feels helpless. “Revontulet. Or. um. Fox Fire.”

 

“It’s pretty.” It’s probably a dumb thing to say, after Stiles educated breakdown. But it’s all Danny can muster up, when he can feel Stiles heartbeat in his palm.  _Eia au, eia 'oe,_ he thinks. His grandfather use to say that to his Nona. Here I am; here you are. 

 

Stiles grins, fingers clenching in Danny’s. “It is.”

 

When the lights have played out, and the darkness of night has once again spilled out around them, Stiles moves to sit up. Danny does too, but he doesn’t let go of Stiles hand, not even when Stiles stands.  Stiles turns, looking at him with bemused, curious eyes. “It’s getting late.”

 

And it is. But Danny’s feeling reckless and helpless to the press of Stiles palm against his own, and he’s not ready to let go of that feeling. Not at all. Legs dangling over the edge of the great big tree stump, he tugs Stiles back to him.  Stiles stumbles a little, knees bumping, before he settles between Danny’s.

 

And then he _giggles_ , the little shit. “You totally want to kiss me.”

 

“I do,” Danny agrees, because let's be real. He’s wanted to kiss Stiles for about _six years._

 

“Wow.” He’s not sure how Stiles can even talk around a smile that big. “Wow....just. I mean I was going out on a limb with the hand holding. I wasn’t sure you’d humor me---”

 

 _That’s enough of that,_ Danny thinks.

 

They kiss.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS.


	15. Share with the Class ( dat ass, dat ass)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny’s never dated a classmate before. There are a few out-and-proud kids at Beacon Hills High, but Danny’s always went after the older types. It’s kind of exciting, he thinks. The idea that he can hold Stiles hand while walking down the hall, or kiss him between classes is so stupidly juvenile, but Danny fucking wants it. He wants to make Jackson uncomfortable. He wants to be mildly inappropriate at lunch, hands beneath the table where no one can see. He wants to put his hands in Stiles back pockets. He just wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean like, this will probably stop being disgusting fluff eventually but right now I can't stop? Enjoy this 3k tooth ache.

“So like, how long have we been dating?” Stiles asks, once they’re back in the jeep, twenty-seven minutes past Danny’s curfew, seriously does the Sheriff not give Stiles a curfew?

 

Danny flushes. “What?”

 

“It’s been brought to my attention that we’re dating.” Stiles grins at him. “And that I failed to notice.”

 

Well, that much is true. “I thought maybe the day you took me to the diner could have been a date, but I wasn’t sure.” Danny smiles too, remembering Jackson's awful advice. “Actually, that day you asked me over to study... I thought you were asking me over to _study_.” Snickering, Danny leans back in the passenger seat.

 

“That was months ago.” There’s a pause, cricket-chirping loud, before Stiles continues. “Wait you thought I wanted to make out with you and you _still showed up_?”

 

“Yeah, the aggressively half-naked guy in your room kind of threw me for a loop.” Stiles looks so impossibly baffled at even the mere idea that Danny would want to study with him, Danny can’t help but laugh. “If you haven’t noticed Stiles, I’m a _little_ into you.”

 

“Well, I mean statistically, _someone_ had to be.” Stiles reels at this for a moment, hands still on the steering wheel, where they’re idling at a green goddamn light. A car behind them honks, and Stiles sends the jeep lurching forward. “But I mean, I just figured it would be like, Greenburg, or someone one. I honestly would have put money on Coach Finstock liking me, before _you_.”

 

It stings a little, but it’s nothing Danny doesn’t deserve. “Well I do.”

 

Smiling -half-cocked to the left, a little bashful; the one that means he’s embarrassed, but pleased - Stiles nods, almost absently. “I’m getting that. I just don’t understand _why_.”

 

“I’m not going to sit here and stroke your ego.” Mostly because Danny would end up embarrassing himself horribly. He has a lot of reasons to like Stiles, and some of them are six years old. Stiles does not need to know that. “Maybe it’s because your idea of a date is looking at the stars.”

 

“But you didn’t know that.”

 

“Yeah well. Maybe I hoped.”

 

“Oh my god, you’re a _sap_.” Stiles looks utterly delighted by this. “Sorry I didn’t realize you were asking me out until Lydia threatened to beat me up.”

 

Danny feels the cold shock of mortification down to his toes. “She _what_?”

 

“She texted me when you were staring at your ice cream and told me that I was an awful date. And that if I didn’t at least hold your damn hand, she was going to kick me with her Jimmy Choos.” He shrugs. “I hadn’t realized that I wasn’t the sixth wheel, but half of the third set. Work with me okay; I’m new. This is kind of a culture shock.”

 

“If it makes you feel better, Jackson is probably going to cry a little when I tell him you made the first move.” Danny can’t help but grin at the idea. Jackson’s going to lose it.  

 

“Actually, that does make me feel better.”

 

***

 

“Not like _that_ , huh?”

 

Danny startles so hard, he falls off his cloud nine, and nearly knocks the table lamp to the floor. “ _Mom_.”

 

“It’s twelve thirty-seven, Daniel.” Her voice is stern, but he can see the joy all over her pretty face. She wears her delight like Stiles; in big grins and bright eyes.  She’s perched in the arm chair, tablet laid at her side. She’s clearly been waiting for him to get home. “You know the rules, young man.”

“I---we---” Danny splutters. “We were looking at the stars.” It comes out defensive, which makes no sense. “Stiles knew a place we could see the Northern Lights better.”

 

And just like that, she folds like a flat sheet. “He took you _stargazing_? Oh my god, that’s adorable. I’m telling your Nona.”

 

“Please don’t.” Danny closes his eyes. “Please.”

 

“Do I need to call Uncle Joe?” She looks at him keenly: Danny can feel the weight of her gaze. “Do you need to have the Sex Talk.”

 

“I think we both know that ship has sailed.” His family is very Education Positive, in all regards. “No more sex-talks. I aced the Practical: I think I’m good.”

  
“We both know you’re half a virgin.” She dimples at him, dark eyes bright. His mother is embarrassing. His life is embarrassing. “What about the talk where we explain it’s different when you have _feelings_?”

 

“Can’t I just figure it out on my own?” He would like to be anywhere but here. Talking about his sex life, with his mother. “Independent study?”

 

“Not so independent.” She snickers. “I really am happy for you, baby. Are you going to stop being a complete snob now?”

 

Danny frowns. “I’m not a snob.”

 

She raises a brow at him. “Oh, so you’re okay with slumming it with a box of Crest white strips? Or should I not cancel your appointment with Dr.Hensley?”

 

He resists the urge to touch his teeth. Danny takes his smile very seriously. “....I’ll bring Stiles over for breakfast next week if you don’t.”

 

“Deal.”

***

Stiles picks him up the following morning, and Danny wastes no time leaning over the center console and kissing him stupid. There’s a backlog of six years worth of teenage desires to work through. “Hi! Okay, wow. Yes.”

 

“Yeah?” Danny grins, uncurling his fingers from the front of Stiles shirt.

 

“Always yeah.” Stiles is flushed, and a little fish-mouthed with surprise. “Um. Your mom is watching us.”

 

“Yes, she does that. Ignore her.” He settles himself into the passenger seat, and buckles himself in.

 

Danny’s never dated a classmate before. There are a few out-and-proud kids at Beacon Hills High, but Danny’s always went after the older types. It’s kind of exciting, he thinks. The idea that he can hold Stiles hand while walking down the hall, or kiss him between classes is so stupidly juvenile, but Danny fucking wants it. He wants the Boyfriend Experience. He wants to make Jackson uncomfortable. He wants to be mildly inappropriate at lunch, hands beneath the table where no one can see. He wants to wear stupid matching tuxes to prom. He wants to put his hands in Stiles back pockets. He just _wants_.

 

Except. Except. Well. Stiles isn’t making it very easy.

 

His hands are always full of books, or papers, or six different highlighters. He somehow manages to get to class before Danny can even find him in the hallway. He doesn’t know how to ask Stiles to wait for him without sounding weird. Maybe Stiles just isn’t the...type, for that. He didn’t even sit by Danny at the lunch table. Just assumed his usual seat, between Scott and Lydia, directly across from Danny. And yes, maybe it was terribly satisfying to watch Stiles turn that brilliant shade of pink when Danny hooked his ankle around Stiles calf -footsie, Jesus- but Danny would really prefer ....well. He not really sure. He just wants Stiles by him.

 

***

 

“I thought you and Stilinski would be intolerable, but this is actually pretty okay.” Jackson’s collecting books from his locker, where Danny’s waiting.

 

He’d rather be waiting at Stiles locker, but Stiles had ducked out of Calculus so fast, Danny was still collecting his papers when he’d ducked out the door. He feels...he feels almost snubbed. “Yeah well.” He rests his forehead against the cold metal of the locker door. “We probably would be, if I could catch him.”

 

“Trouble in paradise already?” To his credit, Jackson is trying very hard not to sound happy at the prospect. Danny will give him points for that. “Chill dude. He’s like, super lucky to have you. But...maybe he’s not out yet?”

 

And Danny hadn’t even considered that. Given what Danny knows about Stiles mom, it makes sense that he might not be comfortable with coming out.  It makes sense, Danny reasons. Stiles took him out in the middle of the forest to just hold his hand. It’s heartening to know that it’s not Danny, Stiles is dodging. But at the same time...Danny’s not sure how to _deal_ with that.

 

“Aww dude,” Jackson says, frowning at him. “Don’t look like that, okay?  Seriously. Whatever you are thinking, stop.”

 

“I’m not sure how to date a closet-case,” Danny tells him. “What if Stiles doesn’t even want to date? What if he just like...wants to....” and Danny’s been with guys like that. Stiles is suppose to be different. Stiles is suppose to be...feelings.

 

“Please do not continue that sentence.” Jackson closes his eyes for a long moment. “Okay, look. I am not Stilinski’s biggest fan. But he doesn’t strike me as a very casual guy. If he’s into you, he’s into you. Maybe talk to him?”

 

“Yeah, I guess.” Sounds awful though, Danny thinks. He doesn’t even know where to begin.

 

But as it would turn out, he doesn’t have too. Because, as it would turn out, their friends are weird, and co dependant, and weird.

“Jackson told Lydia you were worried Stiles wasn’t that into you,” Scott announces, as they’re both zipping up at the urinals before last period. “Erica texted Boyd and made him tell me during English lit, to tell you that’s stupid.”

 

“Why is this happening?” Danny asks, as Scott trails him to the sinks to wash his hands. “Why is this my life?”   
  


“It is stupid,” Scott says earnestly, as he suds up beneath the faucet. “I mean, Stiles stayed up until  two in the morning telling me about how awesome you are. He kept me up until two am, Danny! He’s into you. And Lydia said ---”

 

“I don’t want to have this conversation.”

 

Scott barrels on, because that’s Scott for you. “Lydia said that Jackson told you that maybe Stiles isn’t out of the closet?”

 

“It’s okay if he’s not,” Danny says in a rush, because it is! It will just take Danny a moment to adjust to the idea that he might not get...you know. The Boyfriend Experience. “I mean, I won’t like, out him or anything.”

 

“Danny,” Scott says, long and slow. “Stiles is _out_. Like, I’m not sure you can get more out. His grandma threw him a Skype party and invited her Bridge group. He’s part of the Baby Drag group; the ladies at Jungle make him do charity walks. They gave him a Princess name; he’s not a full Queen yet.” He shrugs. “But like...he’s out.”

 

“Oh.” Well. That. Doesn’t hurt much, Danny tells himself. “Okay. So is he like...not into PDA?” Because Danny can deal with that. He can! He will learn.

 

Scott frowns, brow furrowing to form a thick line of thought. “Well. I mean, I can’t say for sure. It’s not like he’s ever dated anyone, you know? But um. I always thought Stiles would be really, really into PDA. Like...you’re pretty hot, and Stiles is the kind of guy who would probably like, attempt to tattoo his name somewhere on your person. He’s kind of...I don’t know. Possessive?”

Awesome. “I’m reasonably sure that you’re trying to make me feel better, but you’re doing a terrible, terrible job.”

 

Scott's face falls. “Shit. Sorry. Stiles is going to kill me.” He sucks in a breath, and Danny can see the way he gears himself up for whatever awful thing he’s about to say next. “Okay, so I know Stiles better than anyone. And while this is probably breaking like, ten billion bro-codes, I am reasonably certain that it’ll make him happy and you know, with everything that happened this last year, he could use something that makes him happy. And you’re awesome! So like, please don’t tell him that I am telling you this.”

 

“....okay.”

 

“Stiles has...self esteem issues.” This is not news to Danny. “He maybe...said some things that maybe kind of...maybe it sounded like he didn’t understand why you were uh....slumming it, is the word I think he used. With him. When would do so much better.”  

 

That...that makes Danny feel gross and awful and  stupid. “That’s...not even...that’s---”

 

“I did try to tell him that it was ridiculous.” Scott shrugs, helpless. “But you know, when he gets going it’s kind of hard to stop him. I guess what I’m trying to say is that...well. Stiles isn’t embarrassed to be seen with you.” He gives Danny a pointed look. One that Danny doesn’t understand. “I think maybe...maybe he’s trying not to embarrass you.”

 

“ _What_.”

 

Shoulders falling. “I think maybe he...he thinks maybe you don't’ want people to...to like, know that you’re dating. Not that he said as much! Like...I don’t think he means to like...insult you. That’s not how his brain works. He...you know. He protects people.” He shrugs again. “He probably thinks he’s protecting you.”

 

“From what? Social ridicule? That’s ridiculous.”

 

“Yeah, but I mean...like...is it? You guys...I know we’re all friends now. Lydia and Stiles, and stuff. And Jackson.” Scott’s face is not at all judgmental, and yet...Danny feels...ashamed. “But it wasn’t always like that.”

 

“I am not embarrassed to be dating Stiles.” But...but it wasn't’ always like that. There was a time, not so long ago, that Danny was embarrassed at even the mere thought of liking Stiles. “I’m not.”

 

“Dude, I believe you.” Scott pats him on the shoulder. “I mean, Stiles is awesome. He’s a catch. I know that, and you know that. Stiles...doesn’t see it the same way.”

 

“So I should....I should tell him?”

 

“He won’t believe you.” Scott’s voice is frank, and honest. “So I don’t know. Maybe tell everyone else?”

 

“Kiss him in public?”

 

Scott nods sagely. “Kiss him in public.”

 

“Thanks.” Pausing, Danny adds, “Please don’t let anyone play Kiss The Girl, okay? Lydia has a thing for The Little Mermaid.”  

 

Giving him an apologetic look, Scott shakes his head. “I mean...it’s Lydia. I can’t make any promises.”

***

It’s easier said than done. Sure, kissing Stiles is easy. Catching him? Not so much. He has to skip out of his last class ten minutes early, just to get to Stiles locker before the bell rings.

 

“Danny,” Stiles says, lighting up like a birthday cake. Like finding Danny waiting for him at his locker is the best thing ever. Like he hasn’t been dodging Danny all day. And maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was just going about his usual business, under the stupid assumption that Danny wanted to keep him a secret. So maybe finding Danny waiting at his locker is the best thing ever. _So far._ “Hey---”

 

It’s funny. Danny remembers thinking about a moment like this, all those years ago. He remembers thinking about how he could have swooped in across the lunchroom and kissed Stiles stupid among all their classmates. He remembers thinking how his life wasn’t a 90’s rom-com though. He remembers ignoring Stiles for years.

 

Danny kisses him.

 

It’s not, Danny is almost embarrassed to admit, like the kiss they shared under the stars. That had been sweet, and new. Innocent, really. And this mornings kiss, had it only been their second? This mornings kiss was broken with laughter, and Stiles perpetual delight.

 

This kiss? Kind of a mess. It’s a sneak-attack, after all.  Danny has Stiles pressed against the locker door before Stiles can speak a word. His mouth is still open, when Danny dives in, and that’s probably how tongues get involved.

 

Not that Danny’s complaining. He’s not.

 

Stiles has a really big mouth.

 

And he kisses like he doesn’t quite know how too, but he’s a quick goddamn study. He kisses like he’s spent years thinking about it. That contemplative knowledge is put to practice. Stiles grabs Danny’s jaw with both hands, and manhandles him into an optimal angle. He’s taller, by a few inches, and it very quickly goes from Danny kissing Stiles, to Stiles _ruining_ Danny.

 

Someone wolf whistles. There's is actual clapping. The warning bell chimes loud overhead, and Dear God, have they really spent five minutes kissing?

 

“Wow.” Stiles mouth is both a bruised and brilliantly bright red. “Wow. Hi. Um.”

 

“You’re dumb,” Danny says, soothing the rudeness with another quick kiss. “But I really like you.”

 

“Yes, I noticed.” Stiles smile spreads slow and wide across his face. “Honestly, I think everyone noticed.”

 

“That was the plan.” Danny can’t help but preen. “Let’s go make out in your jeep.”

 

Stiles hooks an arm around Danny’s waist, holding him in place against his chest. “Uh. Wait a minute.” His face has sailed right past pink, and into red. Danny wants to lick it, and that’s kind of weird. “As much as I’m into everyone knowing that you want to make out with me, I’ve got a boner I don’t feel like sharing with the class.”

 

Danny’s brain fritzes out as the answering wave of arousal punches him square in the stomach. He can’t help but press in a little, and the feel of Stiles hard against his thigh is actually enough to make him a little bit dizzy.

 

He’s probably a half-second away from humping Stiles, when Coach Finstock finds them, and spritzes them with a water bottle full of something that is decidedly not water. It's possibly fruit punch. “No!” He shouts, like the lunatic he is. “No one’s getting pregnant under my watch, dammit. Not this time.”

 

“Coach,” Stiles begins, probably to explain the scientific impossibility of that scenario.

 

Danny grabs him by the hand, and pulls up down the hallway. “Sorry Coach!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no really, it's not all fluff. except for most of it, I guess.


	16. All I wanna do is (bang bang bang bang)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Stop embarrassing me,” Stiles sings, but he’s grinning like always. “All true though.” He throws an arm over Danny’s shoulder. He’s done it before with Danny, and has always been met with resistance. This time though, he sinks into it. He can feel the surprise rattle through Stiles, as Danny slips an arm around his waist, and into his back pocket. “Hey Scott, go away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so heads up, because this will pop up in the other part of this verse (Stiles POV) later. 
> 
> THERE ARE EXTENUATING CIRCUMSTANCES AS TO WHY STILES HAS TO WAIT TO DO THE DO, BECAUSE LETS BE REAL - THAT BOY IS READY. ALL SYSTEMS GO.

“I’m dating Stiles.” Danny can’t help but grin a little, as the words spill out. After six years of pining, suppression Iand consistent bouts of embarrassment, he almost can’t even rationalize the truth. It’s just too awesome. “Stiles Stilinski is my boyfriend.”

 

“WE ALREADY KNOW. STOP TALKING TO YOURSELF. I HAVE TO PEE.”

 

He kind of regrets saying these things to himself in the quiet of his bathroom, if only because now he has to see the blush steal over his own cheeks.

Ben pounds on the door again.  Danny’s willing to bet real money the little punk doesn’t have to pee, but wants the bathroom privacy for something else. Fourteen is a terrible, terrible age. He takes a deep breath, and picks up his toothbrush. And reminds his brother of one little fact.“THE BATHROOM IS MINE UNTIL 7:15!”  

 

There’s a thunk, probably Ben’s foot hitting the door. “THE BATHROOM COULD BE YOURS UNTIL NINE AT NIGHT AND YOU’D STILL LOOK LIKE A HOBBIT.”

 

Danny spits into the sink, and scowls. “AT LEAST I DON'T LOOK LIKE AN ORC---”

 

“WHAT HAVE I SAID ABOUT USING LORD OF THE RINGS FOR INSULTS?” His father cuts in, and his voice is loud enough to carry up from downstairs.

 

There’s a pause. Danny’s not going to say it. Ben however, has no such qualms. His voice is loud, just like their father, and it carries across the house. "THAT YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE  ALLOWED TO CALL MOM THE DARK CLOUD OVER MORDOR?”

 

There’s a half second of silence, before his mother chimes in. “ _What_?”

 

It’s hard to brush your teeth when you’re grinning like a fool, but Danny manages. He’s finished by 7:05, but he uses his last ten minutes to sit on the edge of the bathtub and update his facebook relationship status and like three months back-log of his boyfriends pictures. Just because he knows Stiles will smile the little smile, the pleased-embarrassed one (it’s Danny’s favorite).

 

 _Today_ is different.  Today, he takes Stiles hand, and grins at the little squeak of surprise it gets him. “Are you--- Danny, are you a _clinger_.”

 

Maybe? Who knows. But Danny would like to find out. “I like to cuddle.”

 

“That’s good,” Scott chimes in, just in time to remind Danny that he and Stiles are, at times, joined at the hip. Not as much as days gone past, but enough to kill a kiss before it happens. “Stiles is a hugger. Also he’s like an octopus in his sleep. Just globs right on.”

 

“Stop embarrassing me,” Stiles sings, but he’s grinning like always. “All true though.” He throws an arm over Danny’s shoulder. He’s done it before with Danny, and has always been met with resistance. This time though, he sinks into it.  He can feel the surprise rattle through Stiles, as Danny slips an arm around his waist, and into his back pocket. “Hey Scott, go away.”

 

Scott pops his head out of the locker, frowning. “What?”

 

“Go awaaaay,” Stiles pleads, already crowding Danny against his own locker. “Or stand watch and warn me if you see Coach, I don’t  care. Danny’s grabbing my butt and it’s _doing_ things for me.”

 

“Aww no.” Scott thinks his head against the locker once. He gives Stiles a sad, puppy look. “You said you were going to help me with my paper. You’re blowing me off?”

 

Stiles gives Scott an incredibly dry look. “Reaaallly, Scott?”

 

Something passes between them, and Scott straightens to a stand. “I’ll ask Erica if she can help me,” he agrees, though he’s still pouting. “Are you still coming by Derek’s tonight?”

 

“Ugh. Yes. Fine.” Stiles flashes Scott a quick grin, but then his gaze is just for Danny. “Now _go away._ ”

 

Scott doesn’t, pausing instead to dance from foot to foot beside them. And shit, Danny wants to tell him to go away too, but it would probably be rude coming from his mouth. “I recognize that you are giving me the opportunity to not witness your gross PDA, even though I probably fully deserve the retribution, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” And then he leaves.

 

Stiles snickers, and he’s close enough that Danny can feel the warmth of his breath. “I witnessed him and Allison making out so much, I can tell you how many fillings they have collectively between them.”

 

“I don’t have any,” Danny says stupidly.

 

Stiles doesn’t say anything at all.

 

(Because _kissing_.)

 

***

And okay, here’s the thing. The problem, if you will. Danny has (sometimes reluctantly) been invested in his feelings for Stiles for the better part of six years.  But they’re new to Stiles. _Really_ new.  He understands, realistically, that they’re not on the same level.

 

He understands, realistically, that he’s ten steps a head but it’s hard to pull back when you’re getting everything you want. Almost.

 

He understands, unequivocally, that being anything other than understanding makes him a dick.

 

But it’s _hard_.

They’re making out on Stiles’ bed.  He has Danny pressed into the mattress with the whole of his body, and the feel of it is so viscerally familiar, Danny can’t help but sigh into every press of their mouths.

Stiles _likes_ to kiss. Danny’s never been with anyone who was this into kissing, and it’s awesome. Danny loves kissing. It’s foreplays’ foreplay!

That’s sort of the problem.

Because Danny’s not really use to this level of build up. He’s use to sneaky, vodka-induced hand jobs in the supply closet at the Jungle. He’s use to broken-English finagling from Cabana boys, as they hash out who's getting a blow job first. He’s use to a closet-case Lacrosse team captains at away games with cute smiles and fifteen minutes to spare. He’s use to boyfriends who put out before the first date. Who don’t stick around long enough to wait for Danny to catch up.

He’s not use to beds, and cute boys with curious hands.  He’s hard and he wants and Stiles isn’t there yet.  And Danny knows that feeling.  Which is why he’s half-a-virgin. It’s all new to Stiles. He’s not ready for what Danny’s ready for. Which, reasonable! Their relationship is two days old.  

But Jesus. Danny’s only human. And he’s going to come in his goddamn pants if Stiles moves like that one more time. “ _Fuck_ ,” he says, completely on accident. “Unless you’re gonna touch my dick, you have to stop.”

 

“Sorry,” Stiles says, reeling back at once. It pushes his thigh against Danny’s dick and that’s just not fair. “Sorry, sorry---”

 

 _“Oh my God,_ ” Danny says, because he’s really going to come in his pants and that’s just embarrassing. He’s an embarrassment. “Unless you want to touch my dick,” he throws out there, because he wouldn’t hate it. "'Cause that would be okay too.”

 

Stiles makes a face, apologetic and flushed. He rolls off Danny, and frowns.  “I um. I mean...”

 

“Sorry,” Danny wheezes, sitting up. He throws his legs over the edge of the bed, and hunches as if that might hide his raging erection. “Sorry, I know you’re not...uh. Ready. For that. Not that you need to be. It’s _fine_.” The more he talks, the more he just sounds like a dick. He should just stop. “Sorry.”

 

Stiles falls back on his bed, and hides his face in the bend of his elbow.  He’s hard too. It’s obvious. There’s no ignoring the line of Stiles cock, thick beneath his jeans. Jesus, Danny thinks. Just. Fuck. His own dick throbs meanly, and he manfully resists touching it.

“I would,” Stiles says, voice muffled against his arm. “I would if I could, but I can’t...”

 

Carefully, Danny lays down beside him.  The movement pulls his jeans tight against his crotch and he sucks in a breath. “It’s okay. Really. No rush.”

 

“This isn’t even...this is just cruel,” Stiles mumbles, letting his arm flop between them. Danny links their fingers together. “I’m a healthy, eighteen year old guy. I deserve sexing. I want to do the sex. This isn’t even fair.”

 

“Please don’t say do the sex,” Danny snorts. “Really Stiles, it’s okay. We can wait.”

 

Rolling over suddenly, Stiles looks down at Danny. His eyes are bright, like bottom bottle whiskey. “Next month. Full moon. Don’t have plans, okay?”

 

Danny kisses his nose. Because he’s a gross sap, and he can. “You don’t have to set a deadline.”  

 

The look Stiles gives him is strange. It’s weighted with things Danny doesn’t understand. “Next month. Full moon. Okay? I'm going to blow you, it's going to be awesome.”

 

Jesus Christ. 

 


	17. The Moon Minds The Man That Minds The Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles meets the Nonna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So I have had finals - full time college students! And a seven year old on winter break- full time mom! And I'm expanding my reasturant to open not just for dinner, but lunch - full time business runner! 
> 
> AND I GOT PNEUMONIA. TWICE. Once on the 18th, and then a new one on Christmas! 
> 
> I am still feeling kind of cruddy. 
> 
> But! I felt good enough to write this! 
> 
> Hope you like. I read through it four times, looking for errors, but...I'm not great at that. Still cleaning up past chapters though!

There were times that Danny was reminded of Derek’s forbidding warning. Times when Stiles seemed...bathed in shadows. When the light in his eyes seemed snuff. Those times reminded Danny of when...when Stiles scared him. 

 

“What’s with you and this tree anyway?”  Danny sits perched on the edge of the stump, feet stretched out over the tangle of gnarled roots.  He doesn't understand Stiles obsession, but the tree does seem...there's something about it that makes Danny want to stay, curled into Stiles side, just to watch him smile and bask. The ground seems to vibrate beneath the souls of his shoes. Probably from cars passing in the distance. Or the beating of Stiles heart. Who knows. 

 

Stiles sprawls across the rough-cut surface, arms tucked behind his head as he stares up at the sun soaked canopy. “Tree of life, Danny.” He flashes Danny a sharp-toothed smile. “Plus, this is where we kissed first.” 

 

“True.” Danny lays beside him and remembers how the sky had exploded in a sea of pink and green. They’re three weeks in, and still riding that honey-moon high. “So, tree of life, eh?” 

 

“Well. That and other stuff. I don’t know. I don’t think you want to know.” He turns, cheek pale against the dark blue of his shirt sleeve, and catches Danny’s eye.  Danny has brown eyes. Stiles eyes are blood and gold and copper. They’re the color of the sun through a glass of ice tea. They’re not anything so simple as brown.  “It’s one of those things you pretend aren’t happening.” 

 

Danny feels his breath catch in his chest. Stiles generally doesn’t mention those things. The orbit of mystery seems to circle them now, instead of just Danny. But he’s always known that Stiles was part of that universe, too. “Full moon,” he says instead, words spilling out too quiet in the wood-struck rustle of the forest. “You can tell me on your full moon.” 

 

Stiles laughs, and it’s as sharp as his worst smile. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Okay. Just. If you run screaming before I get in your pants, I am going to be so goddamn pissed.” 

 

“It’s not like you’re out committing arson or murder or something.” He rolls to his side, to look up at Stiles, to the mole on his jaw that Danny likes to press his thumb against, absently, as they kiss. 

 

“Why not both?” Stiles teases, leaning upward, to rest on his forearms. The sunlight spilling through the leaves of the tree cast him strange, angling shadows. Sometimes Stiles looks like a watercolor painting, slightly out of focus, but beautiful. Danny can’t stand looking at him sometimes, thinks he’s so sprung just the thought of Stiles face makes his heart race a little.  It’s mesmerizing the way fire is, the way you get lost trying to count the flames. “So the full moon, eh?” 

 

“Huh?” Danny’s startled out of his star gazing, but smiles. “It’s as good a deadline as any.” It feels weird to have a deadline. To need one.  He’s use to something more natural, something that simply comes to be. Kissing, touching, taking close off. But there’s something to be said for waiting. The days fall away like, and Danny’s heart beats in sweet anticipation.  There are times when he knows what he's waiting for (Stiles), and then there are times when he's not sure at all ( _Stiles_ ).

 

***

 

They go to Danny’s house just as the sun reaches it’s highest peak in the sky. They don’t normally. Stiles house has that added benefit of being _quiet_ , and empty. A novelty Danny’s house has probably never seen.  Stiles doesn’t seem to mind though. Danny’s parents love him. Danny’s little brother and sister? They think Stiles is a God or something. 

 

It has to do, probably, with the way that Stiles can play with them for hours.  Sometimes, when Danny’s caught in a homework-tornado, or just the internet, Stiles will build block-towers with Tyler, Danny’s  nephew, for an eternity, never getting angry when Tyler knocks them down in a Godzilla frenzy. He’s two, and destruction is his general game.  Stiles just laughs, and builds them up again, higher and higher, for Tyler to destroy with squeaky roars and growls. 

  
  
His sister is no different. “He can do the fancy braids,” she’d argued, when Danny’s mom had asked him to do her hair for ballet, and she’d insisted that Stiles do it instead. He’d taken her wild mass of hair and turned her into a brunette-looking Elsa, a tight braid curling around her head and down her shoulder.  Youtube tutorial spiral, he’d explained, with a sheepish shrug. Danny sort of had to kiss him. 

 

His brother, thirteen and awkward, has come to idolize Stiles in a way that’s possibly alarming.  Danny’s seen a significant uptick in plaid spilling into his brothers wardrobe, and Stiles finds it endlessly amusing. “I’m a trend setter, Danny,” he’d argued, grinning wide and white. Danny sort of had to kiss him then too. 

 

Today both his brother and sister are home, and probably Tyler too, Uncle Joey has been dropping him off more lately. The house is full and loud, and smells like pineapple and brown sugar which means---

 

“I mean, we could go to your house instead?” Danny backs up suddenly, half way up the path. He spots the neon yellow Prius pared up the road and cringes hard enough to pop a vertebrae in his back. 

 

“We’re already here?” Stiles crowds up against his back, hooking his chin over his shoulder. “And your house smells like _cake_. Also, I can hear Tyler and I need to love on that baby so....” 

ou'

Danny snorts. Stiles is so weird. Good weird. “Yeah it’s just...My...Nonna is here.” 

 

He can feel the way Stiles freezes a little behind him. “Not ready for that meet and greet?” He asks, casual and calm. Danny feels like an ass. “That’s cool. I mean, it’s kind of early---”

 

“No no! We’ve already met like all of our family---” 

 

“Kind of easy to meet all _my_ family,” Stiles laughs, a soft little snort that doesn’t hurt, but maybe should. “All that matters. My grandmother  lives in Nevada. She comes up for Easter, you'll have to meet her.” 

 

“It’s just. My Nonna is....” Danny shake his head, and turns to face Stiles. “ _Odd_.” She lives in South Cal, and comes up randomly and without any warning once every other month, or so. Says she likes the bingo in Beacon Hills. 

 

“I think that’s a grandma thing?” Stiles shrugs against him, hooking a hand around his waist, to slip a hand into his back pocket. His mother is probably grinning at them out the front window, God. “I mean, I only have one - my dad’s mom. And she’s like, hella Polish. I call her Babushka. She’s always shaking her fist at her neighbors, yelling ‘Butter in your eye!’ She’s kind of odd.” 

 

That...that sounds exactly like the sort of woman Stiles grandmother would be. “Nonna is different odd. She’s....I don’t know. Sometimes she says things that...don’t really make sense. She might be going senile. Don’t pay her any mind, okay? She’ll probably love you,” he adds, because his whole family does. “She can just be overwhelming.” 

 

Stiles smiles, a little pleased thing that Danny is kind of _sprung_ on. “I like your overwhelming family Danny. I think it’s great.” 

 

“Oooohkay,” Danny drawls, because Stiles doesn’t really get it. Nonna is _odd_. 

 

Danny remembers when he was little, the way she always smelled like rain. It was an inexplicable scent. She wore her hair, white as bone, long and in loose curls. She had a garden so out of control, Danny could get lost in it for hours. A _backyard_ garden! She told the best stories, about fairies and mermaids and dragons and magic and Danny had loved it. When he was six. But as he grew older, sometimes the things Nonna said made the hairs on his neck stand up, made his heart race like too-much adrenalin. 

 

“Danny!” His mother calls from the porch, smile evident in her sound. “Stop smooching on your boyfriend and come have cake!” 

 

“I was smooching on _him_ , Mrs. Mahealani,” Stiles calls back, shameless and loud enough for the neighbors to hear. “I can’t help it. You know how to grow them.” 

 

“I grew a _pineapple_ ,” Nonna mutters, as they enter the house, spilling right into the kitchen. “Who the hell are you?” Her gimlet gaze pins Stiles like ice, as her crabbed mouth goes thin.

 

“Stiles Stilinski,” he introduces himself, even though Danny should. “Um.  _ Aloha awakea.  _ I think...that’s right? I don’t know what time it is.”

 

“ _ Aloha akakea! _ ” His Nonna claps her hand in delight, the accusatory glance falling away, and circles the table to grab Danny’s face in her hands. “Have you been teaching him, Daniel?”

 

“No,” Danny says, feeling confused. Like the time Stiles spoke Japanese. And whatever language Sanjeka spoke. “Stiles is...good at languages?” 

 

Stiles beams at that. “I’m learning. I thought...it would be good? To learn?” 

 

His Nonna looks  _ delighted,  _ moving to grab at Stiles face instead. He withstands it with easy smiles, and maybe Danny realizes that Stiles likes his crazy loud family because he doesn’t have much of his own. “E komo mai, e noho mai, e ‘ai ae, wala’au!”  

 

Come in, come in, sit and eat, Danny mumbles under his breath, just in case Stiles doesn’t know. And he probably doesn’t, because why would he? Why would he learn anything more than a greeting? Why would he learn even that? Danny’s face feels fucking hot, and his heart is in his throat. Stiles does that to him. 

 

Except, Stiles  _ replies _ . In Polynesian. “Mahalo nui loa,” he says, thank you very much. “You grew a pineapple? I read somewhere that takes like two years.” 

 

“Damn near,” His nonna agrees, setting a still warm pineapple upside down cake on the table. The smell of sugar fills Danny’s nose, sweet and perfectly burnt.  It’s the single defining scent of his childhood. “Have a slice. Tell me how you met.” 

 

“We’ve known eachother forever,” Danny says, rolling his eyes.  His mother has brought out the Good China, which makes Danny wonder why his Nonna is visiting. The Good China means Good News.  “We go to school together. We played Lacross, too. Stiles does track now.” 

 

Stiles smiles, and takes his hand under the table. “All true. But...We met the day Danny started school at Beacon Hills Junior High.” He turns to Danny. “I tripped on my shoelace and knocked us both down in front of the bathrooms--” 

 

“Office,” Danny corrects him again. “It was the office. You called me New Kid.” 

 

“New Kid for a month.” Stiles whole face looks...soft. Ugh. Danny wants to kiss him. It’s a problem. “You owe me a dollar.” 

 

His mother butts in, setting two plates before them, their golden scalloped edges to fine in the otherwise common kitchen. “That was the day Danny---” 

 

“Mom!” Danny cuts her off, with pleading, desperate eyes. Because that was the day Danny did a lot of things, and some of them are not cake-talk.   
  
“---met Jackson. What? What did you think I was going to say?” The devilish glint in her eyes tell Danny she knows exactly what he thought she might say. 

 

“Yes,” Stiles says, and the words feel plastic. “Yes it was. But more importantly, it’s the day he met me.” 

 

Nonna loves Stiles. Her strangeness seems to balance Stiles own uniqueness, and they get on like a house on fire. Danny isn’t really surprised, but he’s glad Stiles isn’t put off by Nonna’s odd ways, the way Danny sometimes is. He loves his Nonna, he really does. But sometimes, she kind of scares him. 

 

Danny and Stiles have plans for that evening - something with Scott and Isaac, that isn’t a double date, but is also absolutely a double date.  They ease themselves from a game of family Monopoly that is steadily  promising to turn violent, but Nana cuts them off the door. 

 

“Stiles Stilinski,” she says, in the same voice she use to use to tell Danny creepy bedtime stories about monsters in the forest, and monsters in men. “Danny chose well, with you. You’ll need this.” And then she’s raising her thin arms to free the thin strip of leather that has dangled from her neck as long as Danny can remember, that hangs heavy with a stone token, carved to the likeness of their family totem; the moon. She hugs them both, spitting out in rapid Polynesian a final set of words before closing the door on them both. 

 

Stiles stands there, clutching the necklace in his hand. The totem swings like a pendulum, and Danny is baffled. “What did she say?” Stiles asks. “I didn’t quite catch it.” 

 

Danny did. “The moon minds the man who minds the wolves.” He reaches out to catch the totem, to stop its steady swing. “I can’t believe she gave you this. It’s been in our family for like...generations.” 

 

“Should I....I mean, should I give it back?” He looks sort of sketchy as he asks, hands clenching on the leather strip. 

 

“No.” Danny knows with certainty that sinks into his bones, that Stiles absolutely should not. “No. If she wants you to have it, it’s yours.” 

 

“I’m yours,” Stiles says, sappily, but he hooks an arm around Danny’s waist. “Let’s roll.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Butter in your eye is actually a thing my daughter, she's seven, came up with. We think she summoned the ghost of her heavily polish ancestors to think of it. My husbands family is only TWO generations out of Poland. They are steeped in the culture. I love it. They love butter. The whole insult she came up with was "your soul is burnt eggs, rotten potatoes and butter in your eyes!" Which, if you're polish, is pretty great. 
> 
> Oh yeah, Danny's Nonna is in on stuff. Obviously.


	18. And Umbrella of Preconceived Notions (Got me raining on your parade)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s possible, he admits quietly to himself, that he’s entered into a relationship with Stiles, under an umbrella of preconceived notions. It’s possible that Stiles isn’t all that Danny imagined. But...Danny isn’t upset. He’s...eager, maybe. To find out all the things he never knew about Stiles. All the things he couldn’t hash out from across a lunch room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm back. So if you recall, I had just gotten out of the hospital last time I updated. Well, that was followed up with working TWO WEEKS STRAIGHT WHAT THE FUCK, but that's what you get when you're the boss. Anyways, this is a meaty chapter! Little character growth. I think we'll have maybe two more little ones likes this, where Danny really gets to know Stiles for the bad ass he is. We're nearing the end. I know. This story got OUT OF CONTROL. We're nearly 40k. Holy hell. This was a one shot!

See, but here’s the thing.  Stiles is a  _ spaz _ , and Danny...likes it. He likes his dorkiness, his odd assortment of mildly offensive t-shirts, his unstyled hair, his endless wealth of unnecessary knowledge. Danny likes it. When Stiles manages to elbow Danny in the throat while they're making out (his penchant for injuring others might actually be a skill, or some sort of unexpected weapon). When he manages to shut his own hand in Danny’s front door.  When baby Carter headbuts him so hard, Stiles gets a bloody nose, and then sneezes on Danny’s face, splattering them both in blood. When Stiles stops to help turtles cross the road. Danny likes it. Stiles is weird, doesn’t fit the mold, and doesn’t seem to care. Stiles is a spaz, unfocused, and uncoordinated, but it’s something Danny’s always found charming, so it’s never registered as a problem. And it’s not. It  _ isn’t _ .    


  
Sometimes they do homework. And study. Or _Danny_ does homework and studies, while Stiles plays cat's cradle with random lengths of fraying red yarn and continues to just...be smart in his general direction. Danny knew Stiles was smart, an endless well of jumbled knowledge, that at once registered as random and completely necessary. Stiles _knows_ things, Danny knows that, but he’s not really an _ideal student_.  Danny’s not what you would call a teacher's pet, but he always turns his homework on time, and does the required reading ahead of time so he can better follow along with his teachers during lectures.   


  
“What did you get for the fourth problem,” Danny asks, leaning over to eyeball Stiles paper. It’s blank but for a handful of absent-minded doodles, swirls and lines and things that look like runes, but probably aren’t because why would Stiles draw runes on his Chem homework? He’s suppose to be working through the even-numbered problems, while Danny does the odd. “ _Stiles_.”   


  
“Ugh,” Stiles says, with all the petulance of a recalcitrant toddler. “Fine fine, I’ll pull my weight. But only because you’re really pretty and I like you.” He grabs the book and eyes the problem or all of half a minute, before tossing it aside. “C.” 

  
  
Danny rolls his eyes, and takes up the book. “You have to work the problem out, you can’t just guess. Plus, we’re suppose to write the name of the compound too.” But as Danny writes out the compound, he frowns. He flips to the answer key in the back.“....It _is_ C.” 

  
  
“Yeah,” Stiles drawls, sharp-toothed and smirking. “That’s what I said. C. Hexane. C6H14. See, it has the six carbons. You just have to remember the order of the alkenes and it’s easy. Unsaturated hydrocarbons have ethylene and propylene. So uh. You got problem one wrong.” He blinks at Danny, smile falling. “I mean...I think you did? Because there’s no...double bond. Danny?” 

  
  
“The first problem took me five minutes.” Danny frowns at his problem, but it doesn’t compare any differently than Stiles. It’s Hydrocarbons, not rocket science, but still. There’s no reason for Stiles to know it already. This is next week's chapter; Danny wanted to get ahead of the game, and Stiles had agreed. They haven’t even studied this yet. “Let me see your notes.” Maybe Danny missed something when he read through the chapter. It wouldn’t be the first time. He’s not _perfect_. 

  
  
Stiles hands over his journal with a bemused look.  Harris has some sort of weird boner for making notes mandatory. He checks them every week, writing snide red-inked comments in the margins, his writing thin and spidery. Stiles journal is washed in red, but...Well. Danny doesn’t understand why. They’re only on chapter 9, and Stiles journal is _finished_. 

  
  
Danny blinks at him, journal opened to chapter nine. Stiles hand writing is thin and spidery too, and he’s sectioned the four alkanes into neat little rows; alkanes, alkenes, alkynes, and aromatic. The formula they’re using, 2n+2 is highlighted in red, and Danny suspects Stiles uses red just to mess with Harris. Underneath that is a whole separate section on hydrocarbon derivatives, which, judging by Harris’s aggressive red comments, isn’t something they’ll be covering in the chapter. “What the hell.”   


  
“What?” Stiles down at the journal. “Did I miss something?” 

  
  
“Yeah I’m not sure I would even _notice_ if you did,” Danny says, with a speculative look. He’s not upset, that would be petty. But he is surprised. Stiles is...better than him, at this. 

  
  
“I’m pretty good at chemistry?” Stiles is looking at him, eyebrows pulled together like he’s not sure where Danny is going with this, and Danny gets that, he does. He’s being weird. 

  
  
“ _I’m_ good at chemistry.” He has an A that involves a fair amount of studying, but he doesn’t angst over it. “You’re... why don’t you just test out of it?”  Suddenly, Danny’s itching to see Stiles other notes, for his other classes. 

  
  
“Because then I’d have to take AP American Literature, and I don’t have time to read a bunch of snobby dry crap written by pale, homophobic womanizers.” He grins, and Danny can feel the truth behind it. “You seem surprised. That I’m good at chem, I mena.” 

  
  
“No.” Yes. “I mean I knew you were smart, I just didn’t realize...” He can feel himself about to make an asshole comment, but his mouth makes it anyway. He doesn’t know why Stiles being smarter than him upsets him so much. Or...well. Not upsets. Danny’s not upset. He’s surprised. He just. Wasn’t expecting Stiles to be...well. _Smart_ smart. “With the whole ADHD thing. I thought...don’t people with ADHD have a harder time?” 

  
  
“Sure. Some people. Sometimes. I do, with some stuff. ” Instead of being offended, Stiles laughs. “The H in there might mean hyper, but it doesn’t just mean hyperactive. I hyper fixate, too.” He shrugs, like Danny should know what that means. “I get really, obsessively into things. Sometimes it’s helpful, like chemistry. Sometimes I find myself in a seven hour wiki-spiral, where I go in looking for the history of popcorn, and come out knowing all about Indonesian blood rituals seven hours later. It’s hit or miss.” 

  
  
Danny blinks. He hadn’t known that, and for reasons unbeknownst, he feels like a jerk. “Huh.”   
  
Tentatively, Stiles smiles. “I have the second highest GPA in our class. Which, you know. Is probably safest. If I ever out-gpa’d Lydia, she might actually kill me.” He deflates a little. “I kind of figured you like...knew. I mean, like, you seem situationally aware enough to have figured out that I’m kind of a nerd.” 

  
  
“Yes of course,” Danny says at once, and then winces. “I mean, no - I. Shit. I _like_ who you are,” he says firmly, grinning a little so Stiles knows he means it. “Obviously. I just hadn’t realized I was dating like, a genius or something.” 

  
  
Stiles flushes. “I’m not a genius. My stark lack of social life just gave me a head up on you popular kids.”  He flops down on his bed, rustling the papers they’ve strewn about. “‘I’ve had a thousand years to learn this shit.”   


  
“You’re eighteen,” Danny snorts, and collects their papers and books before lying down beside him. “What I don’t get is why you’d bother to study with me.” Danny’s no slouch, but it’s obvious Stiles doesn’t need to waste his time. “You clearly don’t need to.” 

  
  
Turning his whole body, so they’re pressed chest-to-chest, Stiles smiles, bright and perfect. “Maybe I just wanted to see you, huh? You ever think of that.” 

  
  
“You see me all the time.” Danny still grins.   


  
“I like it so much, I thought I’d keep doing it. ”Stiles shrugs, and throws an arm over Danny’s hip. “I don’t know. Maybe I just like doing normal stuff sometimes?” He hooks a thumb into Danny’s belt loop. “Hanging out with you and being forced to do my super boring Chem homework is strangely cathartic to the rest of my life.” He nuzzles Danny’s shoulder, goofy smile stretched across his face. “It’s okay, Danny. I can be the brains and you can be the pretty face.”   


  
“I’m smart!” Danny says, mock indignant. 

  
“You are, and athletic too. You’re like the full package, what are you doing, slumming it with a nerd like me?” It’s said with a smile, but Danny knows well enough that there’s truth there, insecurity hidden beneath the sarcasm and bravado. 

  
  
“You’re athletic.” He doesn’t know how to make Stiles not feel like that. Not equal to Danny. “You’re captain of the track team!” 

  
  
“That’s just running.” Stiles rolls his eyes, hard. “Point me in a direction and tell me something is trying to eat me, and I will outrun it.” 

  
  
“You pretend things are trying to eat you when you’re running?” It’s not the worst method, Danny supposes, and it’s very Stiles. 

  
  
“Sure,” Stiles says, with a huff of a laugh. His breath is warm against Danny’s neck. “Haven’t been eaten yet.” He bites Danny then, in the curve where neck meets shoulder, and Danny has to take a second to remember what they’re talking about. 

  
  
“Chemistry,” he says, clearing his throat. “We have chemistry. _I_ have chemistry.” 

  
  
“I don’t know, I think we have chemistry too.” Stiles licks the bite, and God. Danny’s never appreciated Stiles need to put his mouth all over everything more. “Want me to help?” 

  
  
Danny feels weird. _Squidgy_ , in a way he can’t explain. Small. No. No he doesn’t want Stiles to help him.  There’s something hot and vicious in his chest, something decidedly teenage. He wants to prove to Stiles that he’s smart enough, even though he knows that he is. “Nah,” he says casually, feeling stupid for feeling the way he does. He pulls himself up, gathering his papers, and book back onto the bed. Break over.   


  
“You sure?” Stiles doesn’t it up. He sprawls instead, rolling onto his back. He must see something on Danny’s face, because he doesn’t press. “You wanna use my notes?” 

  
  
“I---” Have my own notes, Danny thinks. But Stiles notes have Harris’s notes, and well. Danny can’t turn down an offer like that. “Yeah okay. You gonna head out, or hang?” 

  
  
“Uh, hang. Duh.” Stiles steals Danny’s pillow, and shoves it under his head.  He doesn’t talk, while Danny goes over the practice problems, but toys idly with the edge of Danny’s shirt, fingertips brushing over the skin of Danny’s side. It tickles, but Danny doesn’t squirm. 

  
  
Eventually, around problem six, Stiles falls asleep.  It...it changes him, somehow. Wipes away a previously unnoticed exhaustion in his face. The stretch of his skin seems less tight, when his mouth is slack, and his eyelids are fluttering. He’s not particularly still in sleep, twitching restlessly as Danny untangles another compound - ethene, C2h4. 

  
  
It’s stupid to get upset that Stiles isn’t...whatever Danny was expecting. He’s still not the ideal student, but surprisingly....competent. Something shifts in Danny, something embarrassing and warm and he finds himself less offended by this new knowledge, and maybe more...proud, or something. His boyfriend is smart, and that’s... Well. Danny doesn’t hate it. It’s possible, he admits quietly to himself, that he’s entered into a relationship with Stiles, under an umbrella of preconceived notions. It’s possible that Stiles isn’t all that Danny imagined. But...Danny isn’t upset. He’s...eager, maybe. To find out all the things he never knew about Stiles. All the things he couldn’t hash out from across a lunch room. Danny dreams of MIT one day, could never see himself with someone who couldn’t keep up intellectually. And well, if he’s suddenly found himself the one who has to keep up, Danny’s never balked at a challenge.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Danny doesn't know Stiles like he thinks he does. Obviously. Also I had to scrape my brain for Chem knowledge - it was never my subject in Highschool and highschool was like 10 years ago, so if I messed stuff up....ignore it.


	19. This Orange Julius tastes like a demise of the Roman Republic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of all the people he’d rather not see, Kyle is probably top three along with the FBI Agent that had come to Danny’s house when he was thirteen, and his third grade librarian who Danny is still, to this day, sure was a vampire or something. “....Hi.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is really just a continuation of Danny realizing that Stiles is A BAMF. Also I have been trying much harder to post cleaner chapters. Bare with me while I clean up older chappies.

“It’s Sunday,” Stiles pleads, batting his ridiculous lashes at Danny. “Sunday is not for homework, or studying, or anything the realm of responsible or productive. _Come on_.”

 

Danny is not adverse to going out. He just doesn’t want to go to the _mall_. He’s going to cave of course. Stiles has his fingers tucked into the waistband of the back of Danny’s pants, and that’s just unfair. “Okay,” he says, because fine would sound petulant. He consoles himself with the knowledge that Stiles isn’t exactly the Abercrombie or Hollister type. He doubts they’ll run into any of Danny’s ex boyfriends.

 

He’s wrong.

 

“Danny?”

 

“Kyle!” The tension in his voice is thicker than the awful spray the lady hit him with as they were passing the perfume kiosk. Danny cringes. This is why he avoids the mall.

 

Kyle. Significantly older and with levels of douchebaggery surpassing Jackson at his worse.  He’s Danny’s most recent ex, and the split hadn’t been amicable, hadn’t been clean, and had resulted in Danny having to get his dick _swabbed_ . The worst of it though is that Danny had really liked him. He’d almost well...had _sex_ with him. Full on sex. Not just blow jobs traded between Kyles shifts at PacSun. Then Kyle had to go and be a total creepy _fuckface_ , and Danny had moped for along time about it, simultaneously relieved that he’d dodged that bullet. Of all the people he’d rather not see, Kyle is probably top three along with the FBI Agent that had come to Danny’s house when he was thirteen, and his third grade librarian who Danny is still, to this day, sure was a vampire or _something_. “....Hi.”

 

Kyle leans into hug Danny, and misses him by about a mile when Stiles scoops an arm around Danny’s waist, and pulls him in close. “Hello Kyle,” he says through the sharp-toothed smile that sometimes gives Danny chills, and sometimes boners, apparently. “I’m Stiles.”

“My boyfriend,” Danny adds. Just because Stiles was man enough to resist, doesn’t mean he is.

 

“Stiles,” Kyle echoes, eyes dropping down over Stiles everything in a way that Danny knows says he doesn’t hate what he sees. “Good to meet you.” Kyle extends his hand, and Stiles rudely ignores him in favor of slurping at his orange julius. Blinking, clearly embarrassed, he turns his attentions back to Danny. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been....” Danny’s not really sure how to answer that. Usually these conversations end up with Danny moping at Jackson's drunk on Jack, or messing around with his ex in the back seat of his mom’s Yaris, but neither of those are considerable options, and Kyle is _not_ the type of ex Danny would slum it with anyways. Stiles squeezes his butt, and Danny grins, very well reminded of how he’s been. “I’ve been great.”

 

Stiles pulls his mouth off the damnable red straw. “So like, are you the one that Danny caught drilling a glory hole in a Children’s Place dressing room, or was that another Kyle?” It’s said with a smile. Stiles takes another long, loud drink, and tilts his head like a curious dog. He turns to Danny, eyes wide. “Oh my god, I’m so embarrassed. _Was_ that another Kyle?”

 

“No,” Danny says plainly, playing a long. “It was this one.”

 

“Oh.” Stiles finishes his drink, seemingly ignorant of the quiet, awkward lull. “Well this has been super fun. Glorious, you could even say. But you can go away now.”

 

Kyle flushes, a dull and aggressive red. “I didn’t---”

 

“Didn’t mean to stick your dick in a children's dressing room? Didn’t mean to cheat on the _glory_ that is this fine young gentleman?” He squeezes Danny’s butt again, and Danny snorts. “Didn’t mean to come over here and pretend like your relationship didn’t end with you registering yourself as a sex offender?” Stiles smile never wavers, and he lays his head on Danny’s shoulder, though it’s an awkward angle to bend as Danny is shorter. “That’s okay Kyle,” he says, magnanimous  and sweet. “Honest mistake, I’m sure.”

 

Kyle looks...like he might burst a blood vessel in his eye. He’s the California surfer type, with dirty blonde hair and a barbed wire tattoo. Standing beside Stiles, Danny’s really not sure what he saw in the guy. He casts a shifty gaze around them, clearly furious that someone might have heard his dirty little secret. “You can’t just---”

 

“Actually I can.” Stiles straightens himself, and he’s taller than Danny, and taller than Kyle, and his shoulders seem impossibly more broad. “It’s public information _Kyle_ . Information I could make much, much, _much_ more public if I really, really wanted too.”

 

“Hey now,” Kyle says, raising his hands up like white flags. “I just came by to say hi. I wasn’t trying to start anything---”

 

“You can’t have possibly thought Danny would want to see you, given the precarious nature of your last interactions.” Stiles blinks at him, and it’s almost frightening paired with his smile, and dark eyes. “He had to give a _statement_ Kyle.” And really, Danny shouldn’t be surprised Stiles went through his legal records. He is, but he _shouldn’t_ be.

 

Kyle squares his shoulders, and Danny genuinely wonders if the guy is standing on his tippy toes to make himself appear bigger. “Whatever faggot,” he spits, and Stiles tenses beside him, eyes flashing. “You can go ahead and waste your time with him. He doesn’t even put out.”

 

Danny feels himself flush, like a hot-cold flash of tangible mortification.  He’d gone farther with Kyle than he had anyone else, really. Creepy, fuckface Kyle. Ugh.

 

“Oh buddy,” Stiles says, and Danny spares a moment to wonder if his boyfriend and ex boyfriend are really going to get in a fight at the mall, when a different spectacle interrupts theirs.

 

It happens all the time. The security at the mall is kind of a joke. Danny’s seen the security feed, okay, and it’s hard to discern gender, let alone any identifying features.  Some lady is yelling about her purse, and some guy is flying through the food court, headed their way.  Danny takes a step back, content to not get involved, but Stiles....Stiles drops his drink.

 

At first, Danny takes this for Stiles typical flailing personage. But then, the guy is skidding through the sticky, orange mess, and Stiles is there, throwing his fist out.  It hits the guy square in the face, the crunch of bones oddly familiar. Danny knew Stiles could throw a punch, considering the thing with Jackson, but it will never not be surprising. They guy goes down, body slapping hard against the tile.

 

Stiles steps on his throat, looks down at him like he’s surprised to find him there. Like he didn’t just lay him out. “Stay,” he says firmly,like he’s talking to a bad dog. Danny watches the heel of Stiles dirty converse press down a little further, like a warning. The guy looks up at him, dazed, the stolen purse three feet away where it fell, it’s contents half spilled on the black-and-white floor. His nose is broken, spilling trickles of blood down his cheeks. Danny can’t be bothered to tell Stiles to ease up on the guy. He’s processing. Also, he has a very confusing boner.

 

Stiles looks up, first at Danny, and then at Kyle,who’s taken a few steps back and is looking at them both with wide eyes. “You were saying?”

 

“I wasn’t saying anything,” Kyle stutters out, vehemently, his hands raised like two white flags.

 

Stiles raises an eyebrow, and beneath them, the man chokes a little. “You were saying sorry.” He nods his head toward Danny. “Go on then. Say sorry.”

 

Kyle's face turns a violent shade of red. “Sorry,” he mutters, eyes cast down. Danny wonders if he’s looking at the guys broken, bleeding nose.

 

“Okay,” Stiles voice is bright, chipper. The guy beneath him chokes a little. Security is already zooming toward them on their segways. “Now, _go away._ ”

 

***

 

They have to give a statement.  The Mall Officer eyes Danny speculatively, probably remembering the _last_ statement. His gaze is judgmental, like he thinks Danny is the cause of all his lifes problems.  Stiles gets a hundred dollar gift card to use at any store in the mall, and a new Orange Julius.

 

`”So like,” Stiles begins, pausing to take a drink. They’re crossing the parking lot to his Jeep. It’s a bright and sunny Sunday, and Danny just kind of wants to hole back up in one of their bedrooms and put his hands all over Stiles. “I don’t care about your ex-boyfriends.”

 

“Me neither,” Danny says instantly, meaning it with a violent and heated vehemence.

 

“No.” Stiles stops, catching Danny’s hand in his, and pulling him to a stop too. “I mean...I don’t care if we run into them. It doesn’t bother me. Well. It bothers me that it bothers you. That _they_ bother you.”

 

“Um. I think it’s always going to be awkward.” Danny has...well. A lot of exes. Not necessarily boyfriends. He has a lot of _past_. “But if you handle them all the way you handled Kyle, I think I could get over it.”

 

Stiles grins, and Danny wants to kiss him _so_ bad. “Yeah, that was pretty good, wasn’t it? That dumb guy totally threw me off my groove though.” That dumb guy meaning the guy Stiles cold-clocked half unconscious.

 

Danny laughs and gives into the urge to kiss Stiles, right there in the parking lot of the mall. “It was good,” he agrees. “I think the dumb guy proved your pissing contest, actually.”

 

“It wasn’t a pissing---” Stiles snorts, and kisses Danny, quick and dry. “Yeah okay it was kind of a pissing contest.”

 

“And you won,” Danny tells him, around a smile. “Also, apparently I’m into you punching people in the face. Who knew?”

 

Stiles grins. “Your lizard brain is impressed with my ability to fend off competition. Is this where I sling you over my shoulder and haul you off to my cave?”

 

The thing is...Danny _is_ impressed. Somewhere along the line, the impression that Stiles was...well. Weak...was burned into his mind. Skinny. Fragile. Stiles certainly spouted off about being skin and bones enough, that Danny started to believe it. But the thing is....Stiles is _not_.  And Danny maybe hadn’t realized, that underneath Stiles layers, is something to be impressed by. Danny’s seen him shirtless, has touched the tightly corded muscles of his shoulders, his back. He knows how Stiles biceps stretch the armholes of his undershirts. He knows the soft lines of his abs. So Danny shouldn’t be surprised that Stiles is strong, but he is. Good surprised! Really, really good surprised.

 

“As if you could,” he says.

 

A devious look flashes through Stiles dark eyes, and the next thing Danny knows, he’s upside down over Stiles shoulder, staring at his ass and squealing, “holy shit, _Stiles_.”

 

***

 

They’re making out on Stiles bed, both shirtless because Danny wants to continue to be pleasantly surprised by ever bulge and swell Stiles has to offer. He traces every outline of every tattoo, lets his nails bite into every strong, solid muscle, and frantically tries to remind himself the reason they’re still wearing pants, when---

 

“Stiles!”

 

“Fuck,” Stiles mutters, against Danny’s mouth. “One minute Pops!”

 

Five minutes later, they’re wearing shirts, hair mussed and mouths swollen.  The Sheriff’s blue gaze is wry, if nothing else. “Stiles,” he says again, drawing out the word. “Did you punch a man in the face at the mall today?”

 

Stiles face goes so perfectly blank, Danny has to double take. “Um. Maybe.”

 

The Sheriff pinches the bridge of his nose. “Did you have to break his nose?”

 

Stiles snorts, and scrubs a hand through his wild hair. “I mean...is there any other way to punch a guy in the face?”

 

Danny watches the Sheriff watch Stiles, a smile twitching at the edge of his weathered mouth. “Fair enough,” Stiles dad’ says, his voice gruff but amused. “Isn’t it about time to get Danny home? _He_ respects his curfew.”

 

Stiles sticks his tongue out at his dad, but grabs his keys off the table where he’d left them.

 

“So you’re kind of strong,” Danny says, apropos of thing at all, as they turn toward his neighborhood.

 

“Eh.” Stiles shrugs. “I do alright.”

 

“ _Please_ ,” Danny rolls his eyes. “I’ve now seen you lay out two full grown men with a single punch. I’m not going to lie, it kinda turns me on.”

 

Stiles flushes a little, but grins. “Well then by all means, I am a strong and manly man.”

 

He is, Danny thinks. He really kind of is. “You’re not like anything I expected.”

 

“And that’s....a _good_ thing?” Stiles hedges, fingers flexing on the worn-out steering wheel. “That’s a good thing, right?”

He’s not the skinny, flailing nerd that Danny had fallen so hard for. Sure, he’s still thin, he still flails, and he’s absolutely, unapologetically nerdy. But he’s a lot more too. Danny feels stupid for not seeing it before. “Yes,” he says, with confidence. “Yes, it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story about Kyle's exboyfriend is actually from a real-life event in my life. I use to work at a mall, and a girl old me how they had to have a guy arrested because he kept coming in to Childrens Place and jizzing all over the dressing rooms.


	20. Spilling Like An Overflowing Sink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s stupid, and he knows he’s only hurting himself, but Danny digs his phone from his pocket, and shoots Stiles a quick text. How’s the aunt? Hanging in there? Part of him wants to believe that Stiles won’t lie again. That the reply will be something along the lines of ‘didn’t pan out, I’m with Derek’ but Danny’s pragmatic. He’s a realist. He knows what will happen, and he knows it will hurt. Also he knows Stiles is a liar. Has known for a while now, that Stiles lies. Has seen it in action, been awed by the tenacity. He just...hadn’t realized what it would be like for Stiles to lie to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, I'm back! 
> 
> this time....with feelings.

_ I volunteered for this _ , Danny thinks, as he leans against the end-cap wall of a strip mall building. The air is warm, but the breeze is cool, and the sun is low in the sky, spilling pink and orange through thin strips of wispy clouds.  There’s a thousand better places to hang around than the cramped, littered parking lot of yet another nameless Toddlers and Tiaras-esque dance studio, but this is where Danny is.  It’s not the first time he’s shepherded his sister and her friends to a random dance clinic just far enough away to be inconvenient for the conglomerate of dance-moms, but no big imposition for a sibling or wayward weekend-dad. Danny would have begged off, if he could. It’s Friday and he wishes he had better things to do, but Stiles canceled their plans citing family stuff, and Danny gets that, boy does he ever. It’s no big anyways, losing a Friday with Stiles. Because this Sunday is  _ the  _ moon, and they have bigger, better plans.  

 

At least, Danny thought they did. 

Standing where he is, eyes cast across the parking lot, and spilling into the next, Danny’s not sure about anything anymore. It’s not a big deal, Danny tells himself, but that doesn’t stop his heart from thundering through his chest. His stomach drops, and his palms felt sweaty and he can’t stop  _ looking _ . 

Stiles should be with his dad in Claremont, visiting his decrepit great-great-aunt for her one-hundred and third birthday.  Stiles should be grumpily smiling as he repeats himself for the third time, and forces himself to eat stale birthday cake in the communal rec-room of the assisted living center. Stiles should be surrounded by octogenarians. But Stiles is  _ here _ , outside a coffee shop in Perry Crossing (a breezy thirty minute drive from the Hills, and an hour in the wrong direction from Claremont), no Sheriff in sight, no decrepit aunt on her deathbed, no community of elderly. That isn’t to say he’s alone, of course. He’s not alone. 

Just.

Derek Hale.  

Stiles blew Danny off to hang out with Derek Hale. Stiles  _ lied _ . 

It’s stupid, and he knows he’s only hurting himself, but Danny digs his phone from his pocket, and shoots Stiles a quick text.  _ How’s the aunt? Hanging in there?  _ Part of him wants to believe that Stiles won’t lie again. That the reply will be something along the lines of ‘didn’t pan out, I’m with Derek’ but Danny’s pragmatic. He’s a realist. He knows what will happen, and he knows it will hurt. Also he knows Stiles is a liar. Has known for a while now, that Stiles lies. Has seen it in action, been awed by the tenacity. He just...hadn’t realized what it would be like for Stiles to lie to  _ him _ .

He watches as Stiles fumbles with his phone, wrestling it from the back pocket of his jeans.  Derek gives him a mean look, and Stiles rolls his eyes. Danny’s phone vibrates a moment later.  _ this woman lives to spite us all, _ it reads and Danny has never wanted to smash his phone more than in that moment.  

He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t want Stiles to be a douchebag like the rest of his exes, he doesn’t want Jackson to be right, he doesn’t want to have a  _ type _ . Liars. Dirtbags. Cheats. He just...desperately wants Stiles to be different. 

Does he say something? Does he go over there? Make a goddamn scene? Danny doesn’t know. He’s frozen by indecision. He doesn’t like  _ causing scenes.   _ Part of his brain is whispering that there could be a reason, that he doesn’t have the full story. But Danny won’t hear it. There’s no reason to lie. If Stiles told Danny he had to go to Perry with Derek, Danny would say okay.  _ Probably _ . 

Okay so maybe not. Maybe Danny isn’t exactly rational when it comes to Derek, because he’s seen the way Derek looks at Stiles, and he’s seen the way Derek  _ looks _ . Danny’s not insecure, not really, but he feels small standing next to all that. So maybe Stiles didn’t tell Danny he had business with Derek because he knew Danny wouldn’t like it. 

That doesn’t make it okay though. Doesn’t make it right. Doesn’t make it hurt less. In fact it makes it  _ worse _ , because it just means that Stiles knows what he’s doing would bum Danny out.  If it really is nothing, Danny could have come along. He could hang. He doesn’t have to like Derek . He likes  _ Stiles _ . So yeah, Danny could have come with if Stiles had only said. Not...not that he doesn’t  _ trust  _ Stiles with Derek. He does. Or he did. Now he’s not so sure if he  _ should _ . 

His face feels weird. Sort of like he wants to cry. 

He doesn’t. He just stands there and watches as Stiles pockets his phone, and shoves at Derek’s shoulder with the heel of one palm. He’s wearing short sleeves today. He doesn’t usually, covers himself up with layers and layers. Seeing him in nothing but jeans and a blue t-shirt pisses Danny off in the most inexplicable of ways.  There’s no plaid, no hoodie. Why does Derek get to see him like this? The technicolor planes of his forearms, the curving swell of his deceptive biceps. All that ink, painting up his every inch now. Danny’s seen them all, touched them all, traced every line with his fingertip. He knows Stiles body, but it’s been hard-won.  Until this moment, that seemed like a good thing. Like something precious, shared. Danny normally has to  _ kiss  _ the clothes off Stiles, and yes, kissing a squirmy, shy, blushing Stiles has proven to be the highlight of Danny’s senior year, but...but. Well. Why does Derek get to have that so easily? 

Okay and maybe Danny just thought Stiles was different. That Stiles wasn’t the type to lie or cheat (not that Danny is saying that he’s cheating, because there’s no proof, only a terrible, awful, no-good feeling in his belly, that and painful insecurity). It might be, he concedes, the same part of him that always thought Stiles would be overwhelmingly grateful for Danny’s attention (Not that Danny’s better than Stiles, he hasn’t thought that...in a while). Except recent events have told Danny that Stiles isn’t anything like what he imagined. He’s not just a squirmy, squawking, short-attention spaz, though he is those things too on occasion. Danny likes learning about Stiles, watching him unfold into this new, brilliant, bright person. Ass-kicking, snarky, attractive, smart. Danny likes it. Or at least, he liked it until the screeching, brain-halting moment he realized that ass-kicking, snarky, attractive, smart Stiles could probably do way better than him. Could probably score guys like Derek. Could definitely score  _ Derek _ . (Danny doesn’t buy the guys shit; if Stiles showed even an iota of interest, Derek would all up on that in a heartbeat.)

So he stands there and watches and learns nothing new. Derek’s talking, the thick line of his brow pulled together to form that familiar, aggressive scowl. He speaks quietly, too soft for Danny to make out anything but sounds. Stiles is scowling too, his body tense, shoulders broad and taut beneath his shirt. God, but he is  _ lovely _ , Danny hates thinking it when he’s so damn mad. But Stiles is beautiful, Danny’s always been a sucker for it. 

A man steps out of the shop, and Danny watches as both Derek and Stiles turn in tandem, so in sync it looks like dancing. Stiles is somehow taller than Derek, though Derek has a considerably more murderous presence about him. They make quite a pair, all broad shoulders, narrow hips and dark looks. Danny knows without really knowing, he’s about to see  _ shit go down. _ The guy is seedy as hell, stick-thin and drowning in his own clothes. He’s got sunken eyes and a mouth pulled thin and taught. 

****  
  


“Mikey, right?” Stiles asks, throwing out a careless grin as he and Derek move to block the guys path down the alley. “You got a minute?”

“Bill-twenty,” he says, and his reedy voice carries sharp across the parking lot. 

“A  _ hundred-twenty _ ?” Stiles reels, eyes widening. Is this a drug deal, Danny thinks, feeling his palms turn sweaty. Sure, he’s thought Stiles could maybe benefit from a little medicinal marijuana but he never expected to find his boyfriend in an alley buying shit off a guy who looks like maybe he makes crystal meth in a van down by the river. 

The guy bristled, casting an undeniable stink-eye at Stiles. “Hey man. Do you know what the boss had to do to get this together? Shit ain’t easy, so it ain’t cheap.” 

“Actually,” Derek says, and though his voice is quiet, Danny feels it. Feels it in his fucking bones. The hair on his arms stand and he has the inexplicable urge to step back, even though he’s on the other side of the fucking parking lot. “We know exactly what your boss had to do.” 

“Woah,” the guy says, stumbling back like Danny barely refrained from doing. “Easy there, big guy. I’m innocent man. Is this a Sting-Op or something? Look, I’m just trying to make a living.” He drops his hands, and Derek moves to grab him but----

Stiles is on him before Danny can process what’s happening. He shoves his forearm into the guy's throat, and slams him into the brick wall. “Don’t touch him, Derek.” His voice is rushed and hard, and Derek takes a sharp step back. “He’s lit like a goddamn birthday cake. Wolfsbane? Awful ballsy for someone acting so surprised to see us.” 

“White-dust is cheap protection. You can grow that shit in your bathroom.” Wolfsbane? White dust? What the hell was white-dust? “The Boss man said you might be by. We’ve seen your pack sniffing around. We’re not stupid.”

Stiles laughs, his arm still pressing the guy into the wall.  Danny can see in crisp detail, the first of his tattoos spanning his forearm, inked in thick lines of black. They seem to glow against his pale skin. “That’s debatable.”  

“Awesome,” Derek grouches, shoving his hands into his front pockets. “Whatever, get the stuff and drop him. I want this done. I have better shit to do on a Friday night.” 

“Nutella and Dancing With The Stars doesn’t count,” Stiles says, in a tone that Danny’s familiar with. It’s playful, teasing. “Okay, so here’s how it’s going to go down. Derek and I are confiscating your stash. You’re  _ not  _ going to make anymore,” he adds, in a voice that makes Danny shiver. His free hand yanks the guys backpack off his right shoulder, and tosses it to Derek.“Don’t care what your boss has to say about it. You won’t like what happens if you do.” 

Danny....Danny is sure that it’s just the lights flickering overhead, as the sun sets behind the buildings and turns the world pink and orange, but he swears he sees the guy's eyes flash. 

“Cocky for an upstart,” he tells Stiles, and Derek growls. “My boss says the Hale Spark hasn’t even done his rites. What are you going to do to me, baby boy? You’re not even out of the  _ playpen _ .” He reaches up a hand, lightning quick, and Danny can see the moment it wraps around the leather cord of Nona’s totem. 

And okay, he  _ knew _ . He saw it at the mall, when Stiles laid out the purse snatcher. But that - that had sort of seemed like a really bad-ass whim. 

It’s not. 

Danny watches helplessly as Stiles moves his arm to wrap a single hand around the guy's throat and lift him clear up off the ground against the brick wall. “Let go,” he says, with a voice Danny has never heard, echoing against nothing at all. “Or I rip your throat out.” 

“I’m not afraid of your milk teeth,” the guy snarks, but his hands grapple at Stiles wrist. “What’s a witch without his wolves, eh? Gonna have the big guy beat me up?” 

“Stiles,” Derek says, quiet and firm. 

“Let go,” Stiles says again, harder now and the ground shakes beneath Danny’s feet. A subtle, terrifying tremble. The marks on his arms stand out darker against his palm skin.“Don’t fuck with me, guy. Let go!” Now’s a horrible time for an earthquake he thinks, almost absently. 

“Stiles!” It falls from Derek’s voice like a bark, sharp and demanding. “Put him down.” 

Stiles does, slamming the guy to the ground like a goddamn rag doll. The side of his head hits the gravel and bounces, and the spill of blood is visible even from where Danny stands. It’s terrifying because Danny’s held him down before, just to kiss him squirming. Danny’s taken him by the wrist with a single hand and tickled him until Stiles was gasping and pleading mercy, and Danny never, ever suspected Stiles could have so easily broken free. 

Just like the man at the mall, Stiles puts his foot on the guy's throat. But unlike the mall, this time he bends down and reaches into the guy's shirt. A necklace, not unlike Stiles’ own, emerges, and Stiles yanks it free with an easy tug. It swings, a green stone, like a pendulum. The action is so familiar, Danny can almost feel the importance between the movement. Nona had done the same thing, hadn’t she?

“I’ve been looking for another.” The guy protests, but Stiles steps down harder, until he chokes and sputters instead. “But this?” Stiles says, tangling the necklace over the guys face. “This one? I don’t even want it.” He takes the stone into his palm and crushes it to  _ dust _ . “Tell your boss what I said. No more, or I’ll come for  you.” He nudges the guys face with his shoe, a careless cold action that makes Danny feel sick. “All this and I’m still in the playpen, dude.  _Milk teeth_ . Ha! You come on Hale land, peddling your shit again and the pack will be the last of your problems. You’ll see what I can  _ really _ do.” 

The guy doesn’t get up, just lays prone against the gravel. “What  _ are  _ you?” 

Stiles smiles with all his teeth. “Guy - you don’t want to find out. Now get the fuck out of here.” 

And just like that, the guy scrambles up and scuttles off like a fucking  _ crab _ . Derek shoves at Stiles shoulder, roughly. “What the hell, Stiles! ” 

“He touched it,” Stiles snaps and his voice is still strange and haunting. “He was going to take it, Derek. I’m too close to risk losing any of them. I only have two days to find the third - I can’t. I’m not about to lose this one to some second-rate cronie.” 

“So fucking what!” Derek rolls his eyes, and shoves the backpack into Stiles arms. “There’s always more to gather. We’ll go to Hokaim tomorrow, Deaton said he knew a guy.” 

Danny scowls. They have plans for tomorrow. 

“This one’s special,” Stiles argues, clutching the totem. “It’s Danny’s.” 

“You need to tell him the truth about us,” Derek says suddenly, and the scowl in his eyes smooth out into a frown. “You can’t keep playing him like this.” 

Danny feels  _ sick _ . 

“I’m not playing---” Stiles shakes his head, hand still wrapped around the moon-mark. “I will. Sunday. The moon. I  _ will _ .” 

And maybe he would, but Danny genuinely does not want to hear it, right now. Or ever.  He doesn’t know what he’s seen, except unexpected violence and lying and questionable gang-activity, and if that’s Stiles secret, he’s not sure he can keep it. 

“Hey,” his sister says, slipping out of the studio, her gym bag hanging from her shoulder. Her friend sidles up beside her, their matching sloppy buns ruffling in the slight wind.  Her gaze shifts past Danny, mouth pinched in thought. “Is that Stiles?” 

Danny winces. “Yeah, but---” 

“Stiles!” She calls out, and her voice carries. “Hey,  _ Stiles _ !” 

Danny shrinks in on himself, and scrubs a hand over his face. He doesn’t want to do what’s about to be done, her in front of his sister and her friend, in front of Derek Hale. 

He sees Stiles mouth form the word fuck, but it doesn’t carry like everything else. Danny is helpless but to stand there, as the girls clamber into their car, and Stiles jogs over across the parking lot. 

“Danny,” he breathes, bottom lip caught between his teeth. “Shit.” 

“Yeah,” Danny says, short and sharp. He shuts the door to the car, doesn't want his sister to hear this. But she's already sidetracked with her friend, and fumbling on her phone. “What the fuck, Stiles?” 

Stiles scrubs at the back of his neck, and looks at Danny through his lashes. “I’d say it isn’t what it looks like, but I’m not sure what you saw.” 

“I saw you choke a guy out over his  _ stash _ .”  His teeth grind together, and pain flares behind his eye, a migraine brewing. “What is this shit, Stiles? Drugs? Hale land? Are you like...in Derek Hale’s  _ gang _ ?” 

Stiles winces and just like that Danny knows he’s right, or right enough. “I  _ can  _ explain,” he says fiercely, looking for all the world like Danny’s the one doing the hurting. “Let me.”

“This isn’t what I signed up for.” Danny palms the keys to his moms Yaris, feels them slip against his sweaty skin. “Whatever you're doing. With Derek. Here. To that guy.” 

Stiles straightens, and looks down at Danny with a frown. “What did you sign up for, Danny?” He shrugs, and the sight of it hurts Danny’s soul, like Stiles doesn’t even care. “Because I told you - I told you there was stuff---” 

“I didn’t  _ know _ ,” Danny snaps at him, sharp and hard and cutting. “I didn’t know it would be like  _ this _ . I’m not like this Stiles - this isn’t me.” 

Stiles gaze drops to the ground, and the sun spills through his lashes, casting shadows like spider legs over his cheeks. “But it is me,” he says quietly. “This is a part....of Sunday.” 

Danny sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly. He knew of course. He knew that. But there’s knowing and then there’s  _ knowing _ . And in that moment, he’s not sure he wants to know. He’s not sure he’s willing to play complacent. “I’m not sure I can do this Stiles.” 

When Stiles looks up - Danny feels his heart drop to his stomach. Stiles  _ is _ crying. There are tears on his lashes, not yet fallen. “Are you ---” He shakes his head. “I mean...is this it?” 

“I don’t know.” It doesn’t feel like it. It feels awful, and Danny just wants to be anywhere but here, but Stiles looks so sorry and he’s not wrong. He did try to tell Danny. He tried honesty first. It doesn’t make the lying okay, but it makes Danny soften, if only a little. Stiles did try. Danny just didn’t want to know. Stiles fumbles with the totem, hands shaking and Danny shakes his head. “No. Keep it. Nona gave it to you.” 

“I’ll tell you everything,” Stiles says desperately. “You were gonna let me, right? Sunday. I - even if you don’t-- even if we’re not... I’ll still tell you.” 

“I’m not sure I want to know anymore.” Danny’s not sure if he ever wanted too. “Stiles...you really hurt that guy.” 

“He’s a bad guy!” It falls from Stiles lips with exasperation, like Danny isn’t getting it. 

Danny reels. “And you’re some kind of  _ vigilante _ ?” 

 

Stiles deflates, and his eyes look haunted. “No. I’m a bad guy too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you are curious about Stiles in this. I do plan to write more from his POV in the other story. Surmise to say this much, he has the Nogistune still inside him - dormant. So he has all that power. Still learning to use it. And than maybe I also made him eat the new sprout off the Nemeton, so he has to that too. He is, essentially, a well of power. (that's basically what a nemeton is). 
> 
> He's a BAMF.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’s not what I thought he would be like.” It’s fantasy versus reality. It isn’t that Stiles doesn’t live up to the fantasy. To be perfectly honest, Danny doesn’t.
> 
> Jackson furrows his brow, mouth pulling into a frown. “I kind of thought you were into it though? Whatever Stilinski was throwing down - you seemed into it.”
> 
> “Yeah well, maybe I was until what Stiles was throwing down was an actual person.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna post a companion piece to this, in Stiles POV, which I STRONGLY suggest you read before readding the next (not this one) update for Predictions.

On Sunday, Danny doesn’t leave the house.

He lays in bed beneath the bulk of his covers and sleeps and dreams and hurts.

It’s inexplicably different than past break ups. It’s true that Stiles lied to Danny - maybe more times than he really knows. But Stiles real sin is simply being too much for Danny to handle. And that? That makes Danny feel guilty.

Jackson comes in the evening. He lets himself in Danny’s room without a knock, and flops down on the bed beside him. “Eugh,” he says, throwing his head back against the pillow. “It smells like Stilinski in here.”

Danny can’t smell anything but his own sweat and despair, but suddenly he wants desperately to change his sheets and maybe his own fucking skin too. “Hi Jackson,” he says instead, from beneath his blanket.

“So, Stiles fucked up,” Jackson says conversationally, but it’s lacking entirely his typical air of ‘I told you so’.

“Is he fucking around with Derek Hale?” And Jesus Christ, that had not been what Danny had intended to say.

Jackson looks at him with wide, startled eyes. “What? No! Dude.”

“Sorry.” He doesn’t really think Stiles would cheat on him. Mostly. But really, he doesn’t know what to think when it comes to Stiles. “He’s not what I thought he would be like.” It’s fantasy versus reality. It isn’t that Stiles doesn’t live up to the fantasy. To be perfectly honest, Danny doesn’t.

Jackson furrows his brow, mouth pulling into a frown. “I kind of thought you were into it though? Whatever Stilinski was throwing down - you seemed into it.”

“Yeah well, maybe I was until what Stiles was throwing down was an actual person.” The sound of the guys’ skull hitting the gravel echoes in Danny’s mind, and he wonders in a way that is only cruel to himself, if there’d been blood on the rocks when he’d left.

“Look,” Jackson says at length. He scratches at his cheek where faint hints of blond stubble are threatening to reveal themselves. “We both know that I’m not exactly Stilinski’s champion. But -well. You two were....good. Happy. He seemed happier with you.” He cuts Danny off when Danny opens his mouth. “You’re always sort of happy Danny, even when you’re sad. You’re a silver lining guy. I bet even now you’re hashing one out.”

“It’ll be a lot easier to go to MIT without a boyfriend,” Danny says, even though he doesn’t really feel it. Stiles had been stoked about Danny going, had looked up all the cool local dives, and priced out plain, train, and car trips for every available break.

“Stiles is - not a happy guy.” Jackson’s lashes flutter in a way that tells Danny he is uncomfortable. “This last year or so have been hell for him, and for a while we all kind of thought - well. We weren’t sure what. But then there was you.”

What happened to Stiles, he wants to ask but it’s a dollar short and a day late and he’s not so sure he wants to know anymore. He’s afraid of what knowing means. He does remember, though, the times that Jackson is talking about. He’d worried too.

All he can think about now is Stiles standing in that parking lot, tears on his lashes. Danny’s not sure a boy has ever cried over him. He’s not sure it’s fair that Stiles gets to cry when Danny’s the one who was lied too.

“Does he lie to me a lot, you think?” He doesn’t even pretend like this is information that Jackson wouldn’t know. Jackson is in this - whatever it is.

“He never wants too,” Jackson says with such awful, gritty honesty. “I kind of - he was supposed to tell you everything tonight, right?”

“Yes.” He lets his gaze flitter to the ceiling. “Can’t you just tell me?”

“I---” Jackson freezes. “I would, god. I want too. But - if you really wanted to know, you’d ask Stiles.”

“He said he was the bad guy.”

“No.” Jackson grabs his face, demanding and pushy as always until Danny’s forced to look at him. “He’s not. He thinks he is, because he’s had to make some hard calls and he’s been forced to do shit he isn’t about but he’s no more a bad guy than I am - and I....Well. I’ve been in his shoes, or close enough. And while I might have done some bad shit, I’m not a bad guy. Neither is Stiles. He doesn’t.... Well. He doesn’t believe that, but I kind of thought he was starting too, with you.”

“What did he do?” Because it sounds far more serious than what Danny has seen. “Did he kill someone?” Because---because Stiles is capable of that. Danny has seen it, not physically - but in that darkness in Stiles' eyes. In that dead smile of his.

Jackson doesn’t answer. It answers enough.

Danny rolls away and burrows his head into the blankets. “Go away Jackson. Go back to...to them.”

“You were supposed to be there tonight,” Jackson says, and there is genuine grief in his voice. “We’ve--- we’ve all been waiting.”

And it’s confirmation of everything Danny has already known.

He’s the outsider.

He feels small. 

  
***

He doesn’t get out of bed, even when darkness eats his room. His mom frets at the door but lets him be. She's’ seen his heartache before. This is different, though, because if Danny could, he thinks he'd go back, if he could. Somewhere, he’s crossed the line in the sand; he’s not so ignorant anymore. And now he’s standing on the beach, with the waves crashing in, and his feet toe the line where the water would tell him everything.

He sleeps. He dreams.

‘The moon minds the man who mines the wolves,’ his Nana says, leaning over a large terracotta pot. A single pineapple, small and unhealthy, grows from a vine in dry, stale soil. Nana reaches out to pull it free, and when she struggles, Danny helps her. As it leaves its vine, the soil bubbles with blood until the pot spills over, staining the old wood floors. “What is the moon, Daniel?” She asks as the blood soaks over her feet.

“The light in the dark,” he replies, and the words are familiar, drenched in a thousand bedtime stories.   
“The light in the dark,” she echoes, reaching up to touch his face. Her hands are soaked in blood, and he can feel it on his skin “Daniel Mahelani; the moon will judge.” She slaps his face, hard enough to hurt, but her eyes are kind. “And what’s your verdict, mo`opuna?” She shoves the pineapple into his palm where it rots and withers until nothing is left and a single, spring-green leaf grows from the fetted remains.

He’s thrown violently from the dream, and it takes him a moment to realize it’s not him that’s trembling, but the house - the ground - Northern California. Earthquakes aren’t exactly a novelty, and he struggles a moment to get his bearings and find his parents when everything settles as swiftly as it shook. Looking around his room, Danny calculates the damage - except...there isn’t any. Nothing is out of place, not a fallen lamp, or a picture frame askew. It’s - odd.

“Danny?” His mother calls and he can hear his sister crying, frightened .”You okay?”

“Yeah!” He hollers back, already rolling out of bed to check on his brother, who is that age where he can’t admit that earthquakes terrify him. As he checks his brothers room for damage - finds none - and tucks him back into bed....Danny wonders if Stiles is alone right now. If his dad is at work. If he’s scared too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stiles caused the earthquake, FYI.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would suggest reading the second chapter in the In The Spill Of Shadows fic, second part of this verse. It's just...kind of gives you an overview of what Stiles has been doing.

On Monday, Stiles doesn’t come to school. Danny understands; he very nearly stayed home himself.  But - he hadn’t. Why hadn’t he? His mother would have let him. Had in the past - mental health days, she called them. But Danny had wanted - well. He wasn’t sure. Except that...that maybe he’d wanted to  _ see  _ Stiles. Just see him - and wash away that terrible last image of Stiles standing there, crying, in Danny’s rearview mirror. Guilt - hot and overwhelming - churns in his belly and it isn’t fair.  _ Stiles  _ lied! Not Danny - he didn’t deserve to feel so badly.  When the lunch bell rang, Danny hovers awkwardly by the doors - wondering where he fits in the group, without Stiles. Will things just go back the way they use to be?  

Jackson catches his eye and shoves up from the table. “Come on.” He marches forward, grabbing Danny by the arm. “Seriously. Let’s bail.”

 

Danny shakes his arm free but follows wordlessly. The Porsche is strangely unfamiliar - it’s been awhile since Danny’s rode with Jackson anywhere. He buckles himself in and sighs. Jackson will do the talking; he usually does.

 

“Stiles got hurt on Sunday,” Jackson says, frank and flat and so very much like him.

 

Danny turns to look at him so fast, his neck aches. “What? How?”

 

Jackson shakes his head. “I can’t tell you.”

 

“ _ What _ ?”

 

“Look - you told him you didn’t want to know, okay? You made your choice, and he’d kick my ass if I told you anyway.”

 

Danny would love to say here: Stiles kick your ass? But the truth of the matter is - that’s the problem. Stiles  _ could  _ \- and Danny wasn’t expecting that. Doesn’t know how to assimilate it to the image of Stiles he’s held close for so many years. The charming, dorky Stiles he fell for. Danny doesn’t know how to feel about this unexpectedly violent,  _ virile  _ Stiles Stilinski. The one with thick, decidedly  _ manly  _ hair on his forearms, and calloused knuckles. The one with a sharp smile, and dark eyes. So he doesn’t say  _ Stiles couldn’t kick your ass Jackson _ because that would be a lie. “He’s okay?”

 

“Yeah.” It’s a short response which means it’s not the whole truth, but Jackson doesn’t count omission as lies, and while Danny certainly does, he lets it go. “He’s pretty fucked up over you, though, dude.”

 

Danny’s fucked up too, and it irritates him that Stiles is taking precedent here, especially with Jackson, who is Danny’s best friend. “Yeah. Well. He didn’t have to lie.”

 

“Didn’t he?” Jackson sounds so honestly bewildered, Danny kind of wants to hit him. “I mean - you didn’t want to know. If Stiles had told you he had to go to Perry with Derek to beat up some scuz bag, honestly, what would you have said?”

 

“I just don’t get why he  _ had  _ to go beat up some scuz bag, okay? Like why even did he have to? Because it all looked very premeditated. They were waiting for that guy! They jumped him. Stiles practically shoved Derek out of the way, so he could do the dirty work himself.” That- that was something Danny didn’t understand.

 

“He fucking deserved it, okay, you don’t know so you don’t get it, but that guy was bad - and he was working for someone worse. And he was starting shit on Hale Land---”

 

“Derek Hale does not own Beacon Hills.” Danny’s getting a little tired of talking about Derek, to be honest.

 

“Well, you’d think that, wouldn’t you?” Jackson’s look is nothing short of  belligerent, and rude. “Derek Hale...owns more than you’d think. More than just the Preserve.”

 

They’re yelling now, as Jackson turns the Porsche down Bradbury, and into his posh gated community. Danny’s yelling which is- not at all like him. He doesn’t like feeling this way - angry and confused. “It’s Beacon Hills, it’s not exactly Mob-land!” Danny scowls.

 

“It’s not exactly not!” Jackson slaps a hand on the steering wheel. “Dammit Danny - just. Can you just believe that..that what they were doing there - what they did to that guy - was a good thing?”

 

“This isn’t fucking Gotham,” Danny seethes. He’s unreasonably irritated that Jackson is defending Stiles. Stiles, who Jackson more or less admitted might have  _ killed  _ someone.Is capable of killing someone, at any rate. “As much as he’d like to be, Stiles isn’t Batman! And if they were like--- busting up some drug ring, why not go to Stiles dad? The guy with the badge and gun and  _ legal authority. _ ”

 

“It’s not drugs. It’s - look. I can’t tell you any more, okay? Stiles is going to be super shitty that I kidnapped you anyway. He wants us to...I don’t know. Not be weird about you guys breaking up. ”

 

Danny’s not sure how it isn’t going to be weird. “Yeah well. Whatever.”

 

Jackson lets the subject drop and doesn’t bring up Stiles again. He bypasses his bedroom when they get to Jackson's’ house, and skips straight to the impressive Whittamore home gym.  Exercising his problems out isn’t the worst Jackson Whittemore Coping Method. Danny can get behind it.

 

So he runs, and he lifts and he does a painful amount of squats and then he schedules himself a mani/pedi for the next day. Life will go on, Danny thinks, and puts Stiles Stilinski behind him.

 

***

 

When Stiles still isn’t back by Friday, Danny breaks. “I thought you said he wasn’t hurt that badly?”

 

He can feel the weight of too many gazes though Danny had directed his question to Jackson. Why would he ask anyone else? They didn’t bother to tell him shit. They’re all sitting at their usual lunch table, and it’s quiet, it’s weird. Jackson’s face pinches. “He’s fine now.”

 

“He’s not  _ here _ .”  Stiles absence is a gaping fucking wound that refuses to heal, and it’s only been days but it feels like years. “You said he wasn’t hurt badly.”

 

“He was fucking  _ crushed _ ,” Erica mutters, and it takes Danny a moment to realize she doesn’t mean physically. She means Danny.

 

And shit. Danny’s crushed too. “That’s not fair,” he says, and it sounds just as whiny as he thought it would.  Isaac elbows Erica before she can reply, so instead she turns away to frown mutinously into her cheese fries.

 

Lydia rolls her eyes and Danny knows without a doubt that whatever she is about to say is the last thing he’ll expect. “He left Beacon High. He scored a 2400 on his SATs.” Her nose scrunches up in a way it only ever does when she’s annoyed. “The school still made him sit his finals early, but he was an official Beacon Hills Graduate as of....” She looks at her watchless wrist and smiles somewhat meanly. “9:00 am this morning.”

 

And okay, he knew Stiles was smart. He had not realized he was perfect-SAT-score smart. He lets that go. He lets it all go. “He did all that since....Monday?” Danny has used the time since Monday to mope and listen to Adele. Stiles, apparently, had better shit to do.

 

Scott squirms next to him. “I think....I mean, I think he could have done that anytime, but he sort of...stayed.” He side eyes Danny, but his face isn’t accusing, not like Erica’s. “For you. But since you’re not...well. There wasn’t any reason....to stay.”

 

Danny is painfully familiar with the feeling of being utterly written off by his exes, but he sort of thought Stiles would be different.  He looks down at his tray and wonders how food even got there. How he even got here. Pushing up from the table, he abandons everything but the terrible, no-good feeling in his gut. “I’m going home.”

 

Jackson, bless him, is quick to follow. “I’ll drive you.”

 

“No,” Danny says, because he doesn’t want to sit in a car and have Jackson gently (Jackson-gently) explain why Stiles only did what he had to. “No, no.”

 

He collects his books from the locker and checks himself out in the office. The administrative lady gives him a gimlet-gaze, but he’s eighteen and he just...needs to not be here.  The walk home isn’t short, but he’s sure it’ll do him good.

 

Except, when he steps out into the parking lot, a powder blue jeep idles on the curb. The fucking sight of it makes Danny want to cry.  He doesn’t bypass it, doesn’t pretend like he can’t see it. He climbs quietly into the passenger seat and takes comfort in the fact that Stiles looks  _ terrible _ .

 

Stiles revs the engine once before pulling onto the road. He doesn’t speak, and Danny can’t find any words that don’t hurt. It isn’t until Stiles is pulling up into Danny’s driveway, that he says anything at all. “They called me because it isn’t safe.” He turns, just enough to look at Danny. “For you to be walking home, I mean.”

 

Danny doesn’t know why it wouldn’t be safe, but he’s seen a grown man shoot a mountain lion in a parking lot once, so the notion has merit. But somehow, he knows that Stiles isn’t talking about mountain lions. “You would know all about that, I guess.”

 

“I would.” His fingers toy with something hanging at his chest, and Danny knows what it is without thinking at all. Stiles pulls his Nonna’s totem free. “Here,” he says, handing it over.  It sways three times before Danny takes it.

 

“I’ll give it to Nonna.”

 

“No,” Stiles shakes his head. “She gave it to me, but I’m giving it to you. Put it on?”

 

Danny doesn’t owe Stiles that. He doesn’t owe him anything. But he does it anyway. “Heard you scored a 2400 on your SAT’s,” he says, and it’s stupid but he has nothing else (that doesn’t hurt).

 

Stiles laughs and it’s such a sad sound. “Yeah. Yeah, I...Had help, I guess. Studying.” He blinks, and his mouth pulls down into a frown. “I met my father this week. My...real father.”

 

“Oh - I thought...I mean, I thought you already did.” Danny remembers feeling like an ass about a comment he made. What had that - oh. “The Japanese heritage?”

 

“Oh!” Stiles eyes go wide and surprised, but he doesn’t smile. “No that was....something else.”

 

Something else he lied about, Danny reads. “Yeah well. I guess you never really looked Japanese.”

 

“That’s more internal.” He sighs, and it sounds like waves breaking on a shoreline. “Danny, I---”

 

“Please don’t,” Danny cuts him off, shaking his head. “Please.”

 

Stiles' hands clench on his steering wheel, but he accedes. “Okay.”

 

“Jackson....Jackson said you killed someone.” He didn’t, not really. But he didn’t say Stiles hadn’t, so.

 

“Did he.” It isn’t a question, just words delivered flat and empty. “Indirectly,” Stiles admits in the same, hollow tone. “Though I have a really hard time believing that, sometimes.”

 

“...so you didn’t mean to?” And god, but he sounds small and hurt and childish. Danny wants to swallow the words right back up.

 

Stiles looks hurt that Danny would think anything else, but he relents. “No - no I never meant to hurt anyone. Not really. But it’s....it hasn’t always been an option not too.” He pauses, head falling back against the seat. “I should never have  -  _ we  _ should never have.” When he raises his head, his gaze is fierce and hot and so dark it hurts to look at. “You were really good for me Danny, but...That guy you saw body slamming some d-bag in an alley? That’s me and to say otherwise, is a lie. You were really good for me, but I’ll never be the same.  Beacon Hills is - you should go. Far away. MIT - fucking Africa. Anywhere - far, far away from m...from Here.”

 

“Are you going to far away from here?” Danny can’t even muster up enough anger to pour into his voice. He’s genuinely curious.

 

“No.” Stiles flashes him one of those sharp-toothed smiles. “No, I can’t leave.”

 

“Because of the---Whatever?” Because Danny doesn’t know what to call the gaping chasm of secrets and lies that now divide them.

 

“Because of the whatever,” Stiles confirms. His eyes are watery and that’s just - not fucking  _ fair _ . “I love you. I know it’s - that’s not fair of me to tell you that, not now. But I do, and I think it’s better that you got out early, you know. I think it’s just better because I’m pretty fucked up and I’d just end up hurting you too. More than I have. Oh God, no please don’t---”

 

Cry. Don’t cry. But Danny can’t help it. He’s manfully resisted the urge to cry over Stiles Stilinski for the better part of four years.

 

“--because then I’ll cry too,” Stiles finishes, and Danny doesn't point out that he sort of already kind of was. Danny doesn’t tell Stiles that he’s loved him since he was fourteen, in all the ways a fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen-year-old can love a person from afar. Stiles would understand it’s possible, Danny thinks.

 

Instead, knowing that he shouldn’t, Danny leans across the seats and presses a kiss to the corner of Stiles' mouth. Stiles turns to it - probably on habit - and then they’re just kissing. And crying - they’re still both crying, and Danny can’t breathe when Stiles grabs his face, palms as hot as Danny’s tears and  _ pushes  _ him away.  Gently. So gently. Like his hands aren’t capable of hurting, at all. Danny can almost believe it. Wants to believe it.

 

“Please,” Stiles says, his voice as brittle as broken glass. “Please.”

 

Danny doesn’t know what he’s asking, but he nods anyway. He nods, and gets out of the jeep.

 

**

 

Nonna is there - inexplicably there - though his mother and father are not present. “Is Stiles not coming in,” she asks, without looking up from her Sudoku book.

 

Danny lets his bag fall to the floor where his dad will no doubt trip on it later and bitch. He can’t be bothered to write the situation, though, just lets it fall and sinks down into the chair beside his mothers’ mother. “We broke up.”

 

Nonna snorts. “Nonsense, Moon. I’m sure you’re just having a spat. Such things are healthy really, even if they hurt.”

 

“He lied to me.” Danny explains, awkward and tired and sad. “A lot. And he - he’s done some bad things. Stuff I can’t - stuff I’m not okay with.”

 

Nonna does look up at that. “And the moon will judge the man,” she says, careful and quiet. “So you have judged? And Stiles is not worthy.”

 

Phantom echoes of a lost dream flitter behind his eyes. “No-I didn’t say that.” Stiles is - Danny doesn’t think he’s bad. He thinks...He thinks Stiles is capable of bad -  _ very bad. _ And it scares him.

 

“Ah yes. But aren’t we all?” Nonna asks, and Danny startles, half-certain he did not verbalize his thoughts. “No one is wholly good or bad, love. We all walk simple paths. But it is harder to find the good, when all we walk for is ourselves, and we walk alone. Did you love him, Moon?”

 

And there are so many answers to that.  Danny thinks of the boy who first made his heart race, and his palms sweaty. He thinks of the boy whose hands held his tear stained face. “Yes,” he says, because simple answers are best with Nonna. “I did. I do.” Because love doesn’t end just because a heart is broken.

 

“Perhaps if you fear the darkness in his heart, you ought to be the light in his sky.” She smiles kindly and reaches over to pat his tear-tacky cheek. “That’s what the moon does, after all.”

 

“The moon minds the man, who minds the wolves.” Nonna has always been known to say odd things, to do odd things, but this has resonated with Danny. This, he’s dreamed about. “But who are the wolves?” It doesn’t sound good.

 

Nonna laughs and slaps his cheek once more. “Nothing so ominous, Moon.” Her fingers trail down his cheek, to the totem at his chest. “Did he give you this, Danny?”

 

“Yeah.” Danny clutches it and imagines it’s still warm from where Stiles kept it hidden beneath his shirt. “Do you want it back?”

 

“No. I gave it to him, and he gave it to you.” She pats his hand where it clutches the totem and smiles.

 

“That’s what he said.”

 

“Smart boy.” With a great sigh, she picks up her Sudoku book. “He must love you very much, to give you so much.”

 

“It’s just a necklace.” And it was hers first. Danny doesn’t understand, but it’s clear that Nonna and Stiles know something he doesn’t. It hits him then, gut-punch sudden. “You know.”

 

“I know a  great many things.” She pencils in the number nine, in the far left box of her puzzle.

 

“You know about Stiles.” His heart hammers in his chest.

 

“Ah yes. That. I knew from the moment I laid eyes on him. Like recognizes like Charming thing, your boy. He’s seen a lot for someone so young.”

 

Nonna says things like this about everyone, but about Stiles - Danny wonders...it must mean more. “You think...you think Stiles and I will...that everything will work out?”

 

“Not on its own.” She points at him with her pencil. “These things take work.”

 

“He scares me,” Danny admits. “I’ve---” Seen thanks, Danny wants to say. He’s seen things in Stiles that frighten him. The act of seeing, as much as what he saw, frightens him. It sounds weird, but then. Nonna is weird. “I’ve seen things in him that scare me.”

 

“The heart of darkness,” Nonna agrees like it makes any sense. “Figure out what you want, Moon. Figure out how to have it.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things and stuffff are happening.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His heart beats in his chest - this is right. Because - Because Stiles isn’t bad. He’s done bad things - Danny knows it in his soul - but he isn’t bad. Inside anyone, there is the capability of bad, but it’s the actions that define a man. The Moon will judge. The Moon will mind the man who minds the wolves. Danny can be that light in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kind of short, and hella late but - bada boom! 
> 
> Sorry. It was kind of hard to write, because I just separated with my husband, and unlike Danny - I have no intentions of taking him back.

That night, Danny waits until his parents are tucked into the den watching laugh-track happy episodes of the Golden Girls (on DVD, Jesus!). Both his siblings are stashed away in their rooms, doing whatever people their age do (Sarah has a friend over, who knows what they’re doing, and Ben will be...well. He’s a teenage boy. We know what he’s doing.) It’s quiet. It’s normal. It exists in a state of imperfect perfection, like Danny’s heart isn’t breaking up into dust. It’s maddening. 

 

The house is  _ mostly  _ quiet, shadows spilling in through the windows as the clouds swallow up the waning moon.  He sneaks down the stairs, tip-toeing over the squeaky floorboard on the landing. He’ll have to hoof it; he’s not ballsy enough to sneak out the Yaris, and his dad’s truck sounds like a dying elephant. 

 

He dips around the bathroom and through the kitchen. He’s near to the back door when a slight cough scares the  _ utter fuck _ out of him. “Nona” He hisses, clutching at his chest. 

“Buck up, baby.” She smirks through a cloud of sweet smelling smoke and if Danny’s mother knew she was smoking in the kitchen, she’d throw a  _ fit _ . “You’ll need bigger  _ cojones  _ than that, for where you’re going.” 

 

Danny gapes, guiltily. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

 

“Second star to the left and straight on ‘till morning,” Nona replies, waving away her cloud of smoke. “Always know when the moon should rise, Danny. And take this.” She hands him a single match, the strike-anywhere types his father keeps by the fire and she steals to scratch across the ceramic tabletop and light her awful cigars. “Tuck it into your shoe, sweetie. For luck.” 

 

Danny takes it, gingerly between two fingers, and tucks it into his sock with little more than a shrug. “What’s with the water?”

 

Nona cracks a smile. She has Danny’s mother's’ fancy punch bowl out, filled to the brim with water or possibly (because it is Nona) vodka. “Crystal bowl gazing,” she says, before ashing her cigar into the water, and smiling at the rush of ripples it creates. “Go now, or you’ll be late.” 

 

_ Late for what _ , he thinks to ask, but his Nona has always been one to say things like that. Miss-placed things that speak of senility, or something else. Danny just nods and slips out the back door. 

 

It’s not particularly late, only ten or so, but Fridays nights mean very little in the suburban, yuppie, family-sticky half of Beacon Hills where bicycles outnumber cars, and kids outnumber anything else.  Danny follows the paved sidewalk three blocks before cutting left, through the woods. A memory unfolds like origami in his mind, of Stiles frantic and sick, desperate to get home before dark.   _ Forgot to take my medicine _ , he’d told Danny, but Danny had never seen him take it. And he’d watched Stiles lie - so perfectly - about it. He’d watched and known and let it go, and that, Danny thinks, was the  _ first  _ lie. 

 

There is a path, not paved but shoe-trodden, and Danny knows it well enough. It’s dark in the forest, so he uses his phone to light the way, ears keen for...for anything weird.  _ Mountain lions.   _ It’s only a ten-minute walk through the trees to Stiles’ neighborhood, and he’s never been afraid before. But tonight - tonight something makes his heart stick to his throat. Maybe it’s Stiles - the thought of seeing Stiles. He licks his lips, where he still can’t shake the feeling of Stiles kissing him (although, Danny knows, that it was him who kissed Stiles’). 

 

The Moon will judge, his dreams had said. Danny thinks he already has, knowing everything he does about Stiles. God will judge the full moon - that’s what Stiles had said. But Nona said differently. The Moon will Judge. Danny’s made his judgment. About the violence, and the lies, and the...the death. Danny’s cast his judgment, and  _ he still loves Stiles.   _ It wouldn’t hurt so fucking badly, if he didn’t. And yeah, maybe he’s loved a lot of boys past their prime, but leaving them behind was always filled with a  _ righteous  _ sort of anger. The kind that spilled bitter tears, not these sad, desperate things. With the Hollister and Abercrombie guys, leaving came  _ easy _ . With Stiles...Danny  _ thought  _ he’d made the right choice. He’d thought, in those first few minutes, that things were cut and dry. That the dark things he saw in Stiles’ eyes weren’t for him. That he couldn’t carry the weight of whatever Stiles’ was hiding. But then, as he laid in bed, heavy with Nona’s words and Stiles’ kiss, his only worry was that Stiles’ might have to carry them alone. 

 

It’s...it’s maybe not so cut-and-dry. He knows in his heart that he has every right to walk away. He isn’t comfortable with the secrets or lies. He isn’t comfortable with the violence. Stiles has said -in those brief moments of complete honesty- that those were  _ him _ . They were unavoidable aspects of his life. Danny has every right to turn back, before getting too deep. But, he thinks, he has a right to stay as well. To weigh the terrible with the good. To  _ be  _ the good. And Stiles is good. He is so good. Danny has seen it. Basked in it. He wants it back. He can’t say for certain - not without knowing - that Stiles is worth whatever is hiding behind those closed doors. But he can say, from the depths of his heart, that he Stiles’ is worth  _ trying _ . 

 

He can see the street lights spilling the trees on the other side, and he speeds up his steps. The itch to be near him, to talk to Stiles, it burns in the palms of Danny’s hands. Like touching him will make things right.  His heart beats in his chest - this is  _ right _ .  Because - Because Stiles isn’t bad. He’s done bad things - Danny knows it in his soul - but he isn’t bad. Inside anyone, there is the capability of bad, but it’s the actions that define a man.  The Moon will judge. The Moon will mind the man who minds the wolves. Danny can  _ be  _ that light in the dark. 

 

His feet hit the grass - starkly manicured against the line of wild trees - and Danny finds himself sprinting across backyards, toward the Stilinski patch of green.  The California split-level silhouette is oddly familiar to him, and he knows the upper right window, pale yellow light spilling from the curtains, belongs to Stiles.   _ Stiles _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is only one chapter left to this story. ONE CHAPTER. And then some follow up stuff, from Stiles POV. Can you believe it?


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He holds Danny close, their faces pressed together, nose to nose. Danny closes his eyes to keep them from crossing. “Do you believe in demons, Danny?” Stiles asks, and his breath is cold now, against Danny’s face.
> 
>  
> 
> “I---” A frisson of something - the thing that makes the hair on your neck stand up in dark basements - rockets through him. When Danny opens his eyes, he finds Stiles’ are already open. Still open, he thinks. They are as dark as he’s ever seen them, pupils blown and glossy black. “I don’t know.”
> 
>  
> 
> Stiles' thumb brushes over the curve of Danny’s jaw. “Do you believe in me?”

Danny crosses the lawn, cutting to the left to slip between the garage and the house.  The street lamps cast long, shadows that shift and twitch as the wind sweeps gently up the streets. The grass is damp where the sprinklers hit as the evening turned cool, and his feet sink inches into the mud with every step. He rounds the front porch, and takes the cement steps two at a time, careful not to trip over the Stilinski’s wonky-eyed porch gnome.  

 

As he stands there, though, hand raised to ring the doorbell, Danny hesitates. His fingers twitch and curl, but he doesn’t let his hand drop. It’s - well. It’s _late_ .  Clouds sprawl lazily across the sky, salted in between by faint starlight. The underbrush rush of skittering animals fills the air like white noise; crickets and owls and leaf rustle back noise. Not late by Stiles standards of course, but late by normal-people standards. The jeep is parked on the curb, and the cruiser is nowhere in sight, and Danny knows that Stiles is probably awake, but he hesitates anyway.  The deeply embedded fear of looking _foolish_ is hard to shake.  Lydia used to warn him about looking desperate had helped him shake the habit of wanting anything past its expiration date.

 

Stiles is different, Danny reminds himself. Nothing is expired. Nothing is over. Danny will forgive Stiles, and Stiles will _forgive Danny,_ and everything will be right in the world. Everything will go back to normal. And he’s so desperate to get back to Stiles that in that moment, Danny forgets that normal never existed.

 

But before he can steel himself to knock, the door swings open. Stiles stands there, wide-eyed and bed-rumpled but clearly not sleepy. He’s shirtless and that - that’s distracting. There’s more color to him now, more ink than Danny remembers. He is painted in it, but it’s a part of him and Danny mourns that he’s not had the chance to map out all the new imagery. That he stole the chance from himself.  “Danny?”

 

Words fail him, as they so often do when it comes to Stiles. “....Hi.”

 

“Hi,” Stiles echos. “Uh. Do you. Did you. Want to come in? You should come in.” He drops his arm from the doorframe, gesturing loosely for Danny to enter. “You shouldn’t have - I’ve told you not to cut through the woods like that. Especially at night.”

 

“How did you know I was here?” Danny asks, in lieu of replying. He steps past Stiles and into the living room.

 

“You tripped the wa --- surveillance cams,” Stiles fumbles on the sentence, and Danny knows them for a lie in the very same instant. But Jackson's words ring out in his mind, an echoed, awkward fragment. He doesn’t _want_ to lie. Danny’s asked him too.

 

Boldly. Firmly. Danny speaks. “No, I didn’t.”

 

“No,” Stiles agrees, heaving out a great, tired sigh. He scrubs a hand down his face and looks anywhere but Danny’s eyes. His own socked feet. The striped wallpaper. The crack in the ceiling plaster. “You didn’t.”

 

“But you still knew I was _here_ .” There is purple beneath his eyes, and the shadows have returned. He wants to touch them if only to get his hands on Stiles again.  Danny feels like he could crawl into Stiles _soul_ through the shadows of his eyes.

 

“I know a great many things,” Stiles tells him, and Danny knows those words. Those are the exact words his Nona spoke when he asked her if she knew. It sends a shudder down his spine, but he doesn’t speak, waits instead for Stiles to continue. “The moon minds the man, who minds the wolves. I know what that means.”

 

“The moon will judge,” Danny has heard the words a hundred times in his dreams, but saying them feels different. Heavy.

 

Stiles does look at him then, one brow raised. “Yeah? And what’s the verdict?”

“I’m sorry,” Danny wants to move forward, close the distance between them but he doesn’t quite know how yet.

 

Stiles winces. “Okay, no. You had every right to be freaked out by what you saw. And mad that I lied.”

 

“I never really gave you the opportunity to do anything else.” He’ll never tell Jackson that he’s right, but the meaning holds true. Danny didn’t want to know, and Stiles had respected, but the unfortunate consequence was lying.

 

“ _He hits me ‘cause he loves me_ ,” Stiles says, his voice high and mocking. “Don’t justify my shitty behavior. I get enough of that at home, okay? I know what I did...what I do...is crap. But if nothing else...I’m trying to believe I’m not crap. It’s easier now that I’ve - that.” He stops, frowning. “It’s just easier now. To remember who I am. Most of the time. To remember that I’m a good person.”

 

“You _are_.” There’s no way to make Stiles believe it. Much like the way Lydia, Jackson, and Danny beat the self-confidence out of him, something has changed Stiles perception of himself so vehemently,  that the seeds of doubt will always take precedent.

 

“Sometimes,” Stiles continues, eyes shifting across the room - chasing the swaying shadows hiding from the light of the street lamp glow pouring through the window.

 

“I want to be a reason you remember you’re good.” The light in the dark, Danny thinks.

 

Stiles laughs, softly, sweetly. The little kind of laugh that stole Danny’s breath away between kisses. “You...are. But then I think about your face in Perry and maybe I forget.”

 

“You were crying.” It’s something Danny thinks about all the time. Something he found - not so long ago at all - wholly unfair. But it wasn’t, not really.

 

“I suppose I was.” It’s said with a smile, little and sad.

  


“I think I’m ready.” Too earnest. Too honest. He wants to swallow the words as much as he wants Stiles to believe him. “That offer to tell me everything still on the table?”

 

And Stiles does the strangest thing. He takes Danny’s hand and presses it against his face. Like he knew how much Danny needed to touch him - like he missed it.  Danny can feel the Stiles’ breath against his wrist, warm and alive. “That depends,” Stiles asks, lashes fluttering. He looks tired. “Can I kiss you first?”

 

And it’s easy - too easy, they need to talk dammit - to reel Stiles in. To let himself be crowded against the door, framed by Stiles’ arms. To be kissed or kiss him - Danny can’t tell. It’s too easy, too familiar, and it makes everything seem right again. “Fuck,” he breathes out, as Stiles breaks the kiss. He doesn’t move far, just presses his forehead to Danny’s.

 

“I can’t untell you,” Stiles warns, turning his face to press a kiss to Danny’s palm. “I shouldn’t tell you.”

 

“Please.” He won’t beg, but he will ask. “I - I shouldn’t have run.”

 

“No you should,” Stiles kisses him between the words. “You should run, I’m a mess. I’m dangerous, you’re right ---”

 

“You don’t want to be,” Danny cuts him off, moving his hand to the back of Stiles' neck like he could pin him in place. “That’s good enough for me.”

 

“That's not very smart.” He laughs, a warm puff of air against Danny’s own mouth. “I could hurt you.”

 

“You don’t want too.” The argument is getting old, and Danny just wants the world to be right. “Just because you can, doesn’t mean you will. We’re all capable of - of violence. Of bad. You just have to...to _not_ .”  It’s not so eloquent as Nona put it, but Danny tries again. “We’re all capable of darkness.” He takes Stiles hand and presses it to his own heart. “I can be---” _The light in the dark_ , he wants to say, but he doesn’t know how to say it without sounding weird. This isn’t like talking to Nona, who is odd to the marrow. This is Stiles - and Danny feels desperate to make himself understood. “I’m not afraid of the dark, Stiles.”

 

And Stiles....Stiles _sobs_. It’s a terrible, choked sound that gets lost in Danny’s mouth. Swallowed up in their kisses.

 

He holds Danny close, their faces pressed together, nose to nose. Danny closes his eyes to keep them from crossing. “Do you believe in demons, Danny?” Stiles asks, and his breath is cold now, against Danny’s face.

 

“I---” A frisson of something - the thing that makes the hair on your neck stand up in dark basements - rockets through him. When Danny opens his eyes, he finds Stiles’ are already open.  Still open, he thinks. They are as dark as he’s ever seen them, pupils blown and glossy black. “I don’t know.”

 

Stiles' thumb brushes over the curve of Danny’s jaw. “Do you believe in me?”

 

And even as Danny holds Stiles’ gaze, the light in the room bleeds out until there is nothing left. Somehow, though, Danny can still see _Stiles_.  The curious curve of his mouth, the long, curling stretches of his dark lashes. The purple beneath his eyes. That Danny can see - but everything else is a void of utter darkness.

 

It’s impossible not to suck in a sudden, terrified breath. Danny’s head hits the door hard, and the thunk of it seems to reverberate across the nothingness. Stiles' hands leave him and the light floods back, even as Danny watches, impossible to ignore. “Sorry - Sorry. That was----” Stiles shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

 

“I---” Again, words fail him. He want’s to say he isn’t scared, but the best way to convince Stiles to not lie anymore is probably not to start lying. “I---Stiles----”

 

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says again, mostly to his feet this time. “I’m--- Danny I’m a---”

 

“Demon?” It feels wrong on his tongue, weird and sticky and wrong.

 

“I mean....” Stiles rubs at the back of his neck. “Among other things? I wasn’t always,” he adds in, and Danny knows that it should mean something. That it matters that he wasn’t always. “I use to be human. Like you.”

 

“Human,” Danny chokes out, and his nails scratch against the door as he curls his fingers into fists. “Stiles.”

 

“Um. I’m. A witch? And a Demon. And uh. A nemeton. That one, maybe don’t tell anyone.” He makes _jazz_ hands, of all things, and it’s so entirely Stilinski that Danny _laughs_. Purple static cracks at Stiles’ fingertips and it smells - of all things - like his mother's dryer sheets.

 

“Oh my God.” He reaches up to pull Stiles hands down, to hold them on his own. “How? When? What else? There’s more.” The last is not a question. Danny knows there’s more.

 

“Uh. Yeah. I mean, I wouldn’t usually open up with the Demonic Reveal, but the other stuff is harder to prove without one of them near. Or at least, I don’t think I’d open with the Demonic Reveal, but you’re the first person I’ve told.” He shrugs, awkwardly, tangling up their fingers the way he used to those lazy days they spent sprawled out on Stiles’ weird tree.

 

Danny pins his thumb down and squeezes gently. “I don’t need proof. If you’re ready to tell the truth, I’ll believe you.”

 

“I’m not going to hold you to that.” He huffs out a laugh and Danny’s missed that sound, without even realizing it. “So. Me. Possessed by a demon. That was - all the scary shit I was doing back when - that wasn’t me.”

 

“The night at the gas station.”

 

“That wasn’t me,” Stiles says vehemently, mouth going thin and pinched. “I...I had a handle on _most_ of it. But I was in over my head, and he had me silenced. It took...a lot, but the pack. The guys, they helped me out. But..you know. It wasn’t as cut and dry as the movies. There was surprisingly little head-spinning and exorcism.” He catches Danny’s eyes through the curve of his lashes. “There was no exorcism. We locked him in, bound him to a void in my mind. He was powerless...but uh. Kind of loud. And like- a thousand-year-old mischief demon meeting guilt for the first time? And then screaming about it for hours on end ---- it kind of drives you mad. So like....I _sort_ of killed him. While he was still inside me. Which ended up me becoming him. With all his memories and powers. _Knowledge_.” He winks at Danny then, a desperate attempt to break up the devastation. “I’d like to think I came by some of it naturally, but to be honest, I remember everything now. Everything I see, or hear; it all stays. Some of the stuff I know because he knew.”

 

It...well. It’s stupid but it soothes a little bit of Danny’s own feelings of inadequacy. To avoid talking about that, he presses his thumb against the nearest mark on Stiles’ forearm. “Your tattoos? Oni - you called them demons.”

 

“Wards, mostly. They keep stuff from getting in, just as much as they keep stuff from getting out now. At first, though - they were to bind him in place. Nogitsune; that’s what he was. Oni are sort of the...first line of defense.”

 

“O-n-i,” Danny echos, remembering the way Stiles’ had spelled it for him. Just in case, he was _curious_. “You’re okay now?”

 

“Yeah.” There’s significant weight in Stiles’ gaze, but Danny will carry it. “Yeah, I’ve been alright on that front for a while.  Sometimes the pack - the guys. They kind of have to keep me in check. Remind me of myself. He left a lot behind when I killed him. And he was - bloodthirsty. Violent. Cruel.” His mouth twists into the parody of a smirk. “He told me once he chose me because I was all those things and morally gray, too.”

 

There isn’t much to do but kiss those words of Stiles’ mouth, so Danny does. “You’re you,” he says, leaning back against the door. “What else. The...pack.”

 

“Werewolves.” There is no preamble in his words, and that if nothing else catches Danny up. Stiles loves words. “They’re werewolves. All of them - uh. Except Lydia.”

 

“Derek Hale.” Fucking....fucking _Derek Hale_.

 

“Alpha.” Stiles looks away, a curious light in his eyes. “He was pretty bad at it there, at first. But...he’s doing alright. I’d have never made it out of this without him. He...tied me to him.” There must be something telling in Danny’s face, horrible and telling because Stiles rushes to finish. “To give me strength! My tattoos- they’re made with his blood. To give them strength. And the marks - the triskelions. They tie me to the pack since I’m not tied to the moon like they are. They ground me.”

 

“ _I_ tie you to the moon,” Danny says, reaching up to grab Stiles by the chin. It’s strange how the words spill from him, unbidden but not wrong. It...it feels right. It settles in his bones, sweet and syrupy. He doesn’t even know what it means, to be tied to the moon. All he knows is that he wants to ground Stiles too. He wants to be that; the light in the dark. “I do.”

 

“The moon minds the man who minds the wolves.” Stiles smiles, tipping his face down to press a kiss to Danny’s hand.

 

...“The moon will judge.” Danny remembers the way Stiles - the Demon in Stiles - had spoken the words.

 

“Yeah?” Stiles says again, shuffling closer to Danny until they’re belly-to-belly. “And what’s the verdict?”

 

Danny snorts, slipping his hands around Stiles' waist, so he can dip them into the back pockets of his jeans. "Just shut up and kiss me again." 

 

***

 

Stiles drives him home, grumbling the entire way about Danny _running_ through the _woods_ in the _dark_. “I mean, this is Beacon Hills!”

 

“Well, I get the connotations behind that now,” Danny huffs. “I won’t do it again, okay?”

 

“Sure you say that now. But it’ll happen. The woods are like - a sucking hole of mischief and.and...and bleeding out! I always end up there and I have a feeling you’re the kind of human to go running into the madness, instead of away.” He gives Danny a significant look. “Which was exactly the type of human I was, and look where I am now? Eh. You think about that when you’re _running through the woods in the dark_.”

 

Danny rolls his eyes and looks away, afraid Stiles’ will see the smile stretched across his face. It’s late now - nearing midnight. Stiles had answered all his questions, teasing and snarking and going strangely serious at times. “Hey Stiles,” Danny asks, as they pull to a stop n Maple Court. “What was up with that guy in Perry anyways?”

 

“What - Oh. He was hawking hex bags. Nasty stuff too, the kind that you need like...stillborn baby bones and rapey virgin menstrual blood.  Not good stuff. He was just a crony. His boss is a freaking creep, though. Why do you ask?”

 

Danny tenses a little, eyes still staring out the window. “Because he’s uh...standing by that stop sign.”

 

“Oh - Shit. Down, down, get down.” And then Stiles is shoving Danny down, smacking his head against the glove box. Glass shatters overhead as the window bursts, and Stiles squawks “I _just_ replaced that, oh my god!”  He throws open the door, turning just in time. “My suggestion? Stay in the car. You’re probably not going to because you’re a _lunatic_ and you just don’t know it yet.” He grins then, wide and weird and Danny doesn't get it at all. “You know.... It’s kind of awesome that you know now. No more hiding!”

 

And then - and then he’s crossing the front of the Jeep, toward the guy. Danny can’t hear what he’s saying, but he can read enough from the violent waving of Stiles’ arms that he’s _pissed_.  But - but not scary pissed. Not like Danny saw in the alley, or even when he punched Jackson.

 

Stiles is _annoyed_.

 

It’s such a blaise response to having a fucking fireball thrown through your car window, that Danny is genuinely baffled.  Stiles has the guy in a headlock now and is punching him repeatedly in the head. “What did I say?” He asks his voice carrying through the broken window. “What did I say, huh? I said you don’t come here. That pretty much implied you don’t throw fucking _fireballs_ through my _window_ at my _boyfriend_.” He looks up, catching Danny’s gaze. “Hey, do you have a lighter?”

 

“I...have a match?” He fishes it from his sock, watching as Stiles lugs the guy across the street by the front of his shirt. The guy, to his discredit, has given up the fight entirely. “My Nonna gave it to me You’re not going to set him on _fire_ are you?”

 

“Not today,” Stiles says ominously, snatching the match from Danny’s hand. He swipes it across the side of the jeep and holds it between two fingers. “Wanna see something cool?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Danny says honestly because he’s seen a lot and it’s all just a lot.

 

Stiles doesn’t seem to care, flicking the lit match up in the air. It falls to the ground, and flames burst into a perfect circle around the guy. “Whose in the playpen now, motherfucker?” He reaches right through the flames and grabs the guys....necklace.

 

“Wait!” The guy cries, reaching to grab it. He hisses when the fire touches him. “Please----” Stiles crushes it. “Don’t. Dammit, not again.”

 

“You’re lucky it wasn’t your head,” Stiles snaps, but Danny can see the sparkle in his eyes. Stiles’ is showing off. “Now tell me where your boss is.”

 

The guy sags responded in every inch of his lanky, dirty body. “I don’t know!”

 

“Please. As if you're working alone. You don't want to tell me?That’s too bad because now I have to call mine.” He reaches into his pocket, frowning. He pats at his shirt, his pants, and sighs. “Uh. Well. This is embarrassing. Danny, can I use your phone?”

 

“It's dead.”  He hadn’t thought much of it when using the last of the battery to light his way through the woods.

 

At that, Stiles grins. “Guess we’ll have to call him the old fashion way.” And then, he tips back his head and _howls_. It’s a flawless ringing tone that echoes across the cloud-milky sky, and it’s answered three-fold almost instantly.

 

Right, Danny thinks. Because werewolves. Werewolves are coming. Probably Derek Hale. Who is a werewolf? “Are we worried that someone is going to notice the burning ring of fire in the road or...” He leans out the window, frowning. “I mean...it’s a burning ring of fire.”

 

“Please.” Stiles rolls his eyes, and leans against the front fender of the Jeep, besides the window. “No one ever notices anything in Beacon Hills. Giant lizard monster terrorizes the villagers for months and the villagers never even see it.” He frowns. “Well except for the ones that died. Don’t talk about the lizard stuff to Jackson, he’s kind of touchy.”

 

“Lizard...stuff.”

 

“I’ll explain later.” He turns, stretching just enough to press a kiss to the corner of Danny’s mouth. “Weirded out yet?”

 

“Extremely,” Danny admits because honesty is the best policy.

 

Stiles nods, looking delighted. “Hey, but you stayed in the car! There may be hope for you yet.”

 

 

***

  
There's....there's still so much that Danny doesn't know.  But he _wants_ too.   
  
  
The first time Danny falls in love.....it's all Stiles' fault. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it guys. The end. If it feels incomplete...well. There's still The Spill of Shadows to answer all your questions. Have a question that you want answered? Leave it in the comments! 
> 
> Originally...and this is why I took forever to end this...I was going to kidnap Danny. But that seemed kind of cliche. I liked the idea of Stiles telling Danny and then Danny just...being thrown into this new world. So yeah. There didn't need to be some big outside crisis. This whole fic has just been about Danny's ambling journey to falling in love, so I kind of wanted to keep to that theme. Does it make the ending a little anti-climactic? Kind of. But sometimes, love just is.


	25. Check Out the New Story To This Series

For those of you who didn't bookmark the series but only the first story - there's more! Huzzah!


End file.
